to
of the
uf
Professor John Satterly
Department of Physics
University of Toronto
THE COASTS OF DEVON
LUNDY ISLAND
THE
COASTS OF DEVON
AND
LUNDY ISLAND
THEIR TOWNS, VILLAGES, SCENERY, ANTIQUITIES
AND LEGENDS
JOHN LLOYD WARDEN PAGE
AUTHOR OF
'AN EXPLORATION OF DARTMOOR AND ITS ANTIQUITIES,' 'AN EXPLORATION
OF EXMOOR AND THE HILL COUNTRY OF WEST SOMERSET,' 'THE
RIVERS OF DEVON, FROM SOURCE TO SEA,' 'OKEHAMPTON:
ITS CASTLE,' ETC., ETC.
WITH MAP AND ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
HORACE COX
WINDSOR HOUSE, BREAM'S BUILDINGS, B.C.
1895
1,10
O
LONDON :
PRINTED BY HORACE COX, WINDSOR HOUSE, BREAM'S BUILDINGS, B.C.
TO MY FELLOW TRAMPS
AT DIFFERENT PERIODS OF THESE WANDERINGS,
C. M. H.,
T. F. P.,
W. L. C.,
AND
A. P.,
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME.
CONTENTS,
FACE.
PREFACE xvii
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
Coast Scenery — The North Coast — The South Coast— Climate —
Geology — River Estuaries — Harbours and Seaports — Fishing
Stations — Watering Places — Historical Associations i
PART I.— THE COAST OF NORTH DEVON.
CHAPTER II.
THE BORDERS OF DEVON AND SOMERSET.
On the Moorland — Coaches — County Gate — Old Barrow— The Sea-
ward Slopes — Valley of the Lyn — Coscombe— Glenthorne — The
Coast Pathway — The Foreland — A Foggy Incident — The Gun
Caverns — Countisbury . . . . . . . . .11
CHAPTER III.
LYNMOUTH AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.
Countisbury Hill — Coach Accidents — An Earthwork — Lynmouth —
Glen Lyn — The Cliff Railway — Lynton— Valley of Rocks —
Legends — Ring Cliff Cove — Duty Point — Lee Abbey — Story of 24
the Wichehalses — The Doones.
b 2
viii Contents.
CHAPTER IV.
MARTINSHOE, TRENTISHOE, AND "THE GREAT HANGM \N.
PAGE.
Lee Bay — The Smuggler and the Exciseman — Crock Meads —
Woodabay — Martinhoe — North Devon Cottages — Martinhoe
Church— Bishop Hannington— Hollow Combe — High Veer —
Heddon's Mouth — Hunter's Inn — Trentishoe — An Old Man Yarn
— Holdstone Down — Sherracombe — The Great Hangman —
Miners' Caves .... 39
CHAPTER V.
COMBE MARTIN.
The Little Hangman — Yes Tor — Challacombe Farm — The Mines of
Combe Martin — Wild Pear Beach — Combe Martin — Combe
Martin Church — The Last of the Martins— Thomas Harding — A
Quaint Festival 54
CHAPTER VI.
THROUGH BERRYNARBOR AND WATERMOL'TH.
The " Castle " Earthwork — Sandy Way — Watermouth- -Smallmouth
Caves — Berrynarbor — Bishop Jewel — Manor House — A Healthy
Place — " Dangerously Old " — Sloe Gin — Watermouth Harbour
and Castle — -Widmouth Head — Rillage Point — Interesting Rocks
— Hele — Chambercombe — A Ghost Story ..... 69
CHAPTER VII.
ILFRACOMBE.
Chambercombe — Trayne — Hillsborough — -Rapparee Cove — Ilfracombe
Harbour — Lantern Hill — History of Ilfracombe — The Town—
The Capstone — Wildersmouth — Runnacleaves — The Torrs —
Climate. — Church — An Old Monument 84
CHAPTER VIII.
, MORTEHOE.
The Road to Lee — Over the Torrs — Cairn Top — Lee — Damage —
John Cutcliffe — A Smugglers' Hole — Wreck of the Leamington —
Bull Point — A Pleasant Musical Instrument — Rockham Bay —
Mortehoe — A Doubtful Cromlech — Morty Well — Mortehoe
Church— De Tracey . . IOO
Contents. ix
CHAPTER IX.
BETWEEN MORTE POINT AND BIDEFORD BAR.
PAGI.
Tasteless Architecture — Another Cromlech — Barricane Beach —
Woolacombe — A Brig Ashore — Woolacombe Sands — Georgeham
— Croyde — Croyde Bay — Baggy Point — A Dangerous Cave —
Saunton Down — Saunton Court — A Boulder out of Place —
Braunton Burrows — Mouth of the Torridge and Taw . . .117
CHAPTER X.
APPLEDORE AND CLOVELLY.
Instow — Appledore — Hubba the Dane — Bloody Corner — Northam —
Burrough — Westward Ho — The Pebble Ridge — Abbotsham —
Portledge — Sir William Coffin and the Priest — Peppercombe —
Buck's Mill — Hobby Drive— Clovelly 135
CHAPTER XI.
HARTLAND.
A Remote District — Clovelly Church — The Carys — Clovelly Park —
Gallantry Bower — Mouth Mill — Exfnansworthy — On Samplers —
Hartland Point — The Pony and the Foghorn — Smoothlands —
Blackmouth — Hartland Abbey — Stoke St. Nectan— A Bellicose
Parish 156
CHAPTER XII.
THE BORDERLAND OF DEVON AND CORNWALL.
Months-^ Hartland Quay — Catterin Tor — Spekesmouth — Henbury
Beacon — Welcombe — An Eccentric Parson — "Jollow's" —
Welcombe Mouth— Cruel Coppinger — Marsland Mouth . .174
PART II.— LUNDY ISLAND.
CHAPTER XIII.
A GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
Appearance — Geology — Climate — Fogs — Wrecks — The Islanders —
The Island Polity — Cultivation — An "Explosive" Story —
•Mammalia — Birds — Fishing ........ 184
x Contents.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE ISLAND KINGDOM.
PAGE.
How and Where to Land — An Unpleasant Experience — The Gannet
The Parsons' Predicament — The Voyage from Instow — The
Landing Place — The Road — Lametry — Rat Island — The Owner's
Residence — The Manor House, Church, and School — A Pleasant
Service — Kistvaens — A Gigantic Skeleton — The Lighthouse — St .
Helen's Church 197
CHAPTER XV.
FROM MARISCO CASTLE TO JOHN o' GROATS.
Marisco Castle — The Mariscos — A Turbulent Race — Despenser and
Edward the Second — A Nest of Pirates — Benson's Cave — Benson
and his Villainies — The Rattles — The Seals' Cave — The Devil's
Limekiln — The Shutter — Wreck of the Galleon — Friar's Garden
— Quarter Wall — The Earthquake — The Punchbowl — The
Cheeses — Jenny's Cove — The Gladstone Rock — The Round
Tower — The Devil's Slide — John o' Groat's . . . . .211
CHAPTER XVI.
LUNDY: THE EASTERN COAST.
The North End— The Constable— The Virgin's Well— The Gannet
Stone — Plans for Harbour of Refuge — Brazen Ward — A French
Ruse— The Gull Rock— Tibbet's Hill— The Templar Rock— The
Logan — The Granite Quarries — Wrecks of the Tunisie and
Hannah More . . ...... 4 • 230
PART III.— THE SOUTH COAST OF DEVON.
CHAPTER XVII.
PLYMOUTH.
A Walk Down the Tamar— The Hamoaze — Plymouth Sound — The
Hoe — Story of the Eddystone — The Breakwater — Drake's Island
—The Citadel— History of Plymouth— The Black Prince— The
French Descents — A, Big Pie — Catharine of Arragon . . . 243
Contents. xi
CHAPTER XVIII.
PLYMOUTH — AND DEVONPORT.
PAGE.
Devon " Sea-dogs " — The Armada — Drake and Raleigh — The May-
flower— The Civil War — Blake — Napoleon en route for St. Helena
— Some Visitors — A Busy Place — St. Andrew's Church — The
" Prysten House " — The Guildhall — Stonehouse — Devonport and
the Dockyard — Visit of George the Third — Mount Wise — The
Fortifications ........... 260
CHAPTER XIX.
FROM PLYMOUTH SOUND TO THE YEALM.
The Barbican — Mount Batten — Turnchapel — Archaeological " Finds "
— Staddon Heights — Bovisand — The Mewstone — An Original
Letter — Wembury — The Yealm Estuary — Newton Ferrers — The
Dolphin — Noss 277
CHAPTER XX.
BIGBURY BAY.
An Interesting Church and a Sumptuous One — Stoke Point — Revel-
stoke Church — Lord Revelstoke's Drive — Mothecombe — Inns —
Mouth of the Erme — Fording the River — Ringmore — A Persecuted
Priest — Bigbury — Bread and Cheese and Cider — Mouth of the
Avon — Borough Island — Thurlstone — The Bishop and the Clerk —
"Counter Alto" and "Terrible"— Hope— White Ale . . 293
CHAPTER XXI.
" THE BOLT " AND " THE START."
A Dangerous Path — Bolt Tail — Wreck of the Ramillies — Bolbury
Down — Vincent Pits and Rotten Pits — Ralph's Hole — Smugglers
—Sewer Mill Cove— The Bull and the Hole— Bolt Head— South
Sands — Salcombe Castle — A Plucky Royalist — Salcombe — Portle-
mouth — The Parson and the Wreck — Prawle Point — Lannacombe
— The Start — Wrecks during the Blizzard . , . . . 309
CHAPTER XXII.
START BAY.
Hallsands and Beesands — A Long Seine — The Dogs of Start Bay —
More Wrecks — Torcross — Slapton Lea — Slapton Village — The
xii Contents.
PAGE.
Bryans — Poole and the Hawkins' — Street — Blackpool — Stoke
Fleming — Gallants' Bower — Dartmouth Harbour — Dartmouth
Castle 326
CHAPTER XXIII.
DARTMOUTH AND BRIXHAM.
Dartmouth — St. Saviour's Church — John Hawley — Townstall — History
of Dartmouth— Kingswear — Down Head — Sharpham Point —
Berry Head — Old Forts — Landing of William of Orange — Varwell
and his Adventure — Napoleon's Visit — " Resurrection Bob " —
Brixham Quay and " Brixham Lords " 342
CHAPTER XXIV.
ABOUT TORBAY.
Paignton — The Palace, the Church, and the Kirkhams — Torquay — A
Lotus Land — Torre Abbey — De Bruiere's Revenge — Chapel on
Torre Hill — Climate of Torquay — Daddy's Hole and its Legend
— Meadfoot — Ilsham Grange — Kent's Cavern — Anstis Cove —
Anecdote of Bishop Philpotts 360
CHAPTER XXV.
OVER THE RED CLIFFS.
Walls Hill — Babbacombe — The Story of an Attempted Execution —
Oddicombe— Petit Tor— Watcombe Terra Cotta Works— The
Teignmouth Road — Shaldon Bridge — Teignmouth — Its Churches
The Parson and Clerk Rocks — Dawlish — The Warren . . 373
CHAPTER XXVI.
FROM EXMOUTH TO SIDMOUTH.
Exmouth — Littleham — West Down Beacon — Woodbury Castle —
Hayes Barton and Sir Walter Raleigh— The Introduction of
Tobacco— Budleigh Salterton— The River Otter— Ladram Bay-
High Peak— Sidmouth— A Ridiculous River . . . .388
CHAPTER XXVII.
FROM SIDMOUTH TO SEATON.
Salcombe Hill — Salcombe Regis — Dunscombe — Weston Mouth —
Petrifying Springs— Branscombe — An Ill-kept Church— Beer
Head — Beer — Beer and the Armada — Lace-making — The Prince
Consort's Wedding Lace 403
Contents. xiii
CHAPTER XXVIII.
OVER THE WHITE CLIFFS.
PACE.
Beer Quarries — The Cove and the Capstan — The White Cliff — Seaton
— Moridunum — Bovey House and its Ghost — A Blocked Haven —
Battle of Brunanberg 420
CHAPTER XXIX.
THROUGH THE LANDSLIP.
Mouth of the Axe — The Concrete Bridge — Haven Cliff — Culverhole
Point — The Landslip — A Great Subsidence — Rowsedon — A
Rough Undercliff — The County Boundary — Lyme Regis . . 429
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
CASTLE ROCK , Frontispiece.
THE FORELAND. From a Sketch by the Author . . . To face p. 21
A BIT OF LYNTON ,. 30
THE GREAT AND LITTLE HANGMAN. From a Sketch by
the Author ,,52
ILFRACOMBE, FROM RILLAGE. From a Sketch by the Author „ 91
MORTE POINT „ in
APPLEDORE, FROM INSTOW QUAY. From a Sketch by the
Author , „ 137
CLOVELLY STREET „ 15*
CLOVELLY „ 153
HARTLAND. From a Sketch by the Author .... „ 156
HARTLAND POINT AND LUNDY ISLAND .... „ 166
MARISCO CASTLE. From a Sketch by the Author. . . „ 211
THE " TEMPLAR," LUNDY ISLAND „ 238
DRAKE'S ISLAND, FROM MOUNT EDGCUMBE. ... „ 250
NEWTON FERRERS. From a Sketch by the Author . . „ 290
BOLT HEAD AND PRAWLE POINT „ 320
START POINT. From a Sketch by the Author ... „ 326
xvi List of Illustrations,
DARTMOUTH To face p. 342
BRIXHAM QUAY " 3^7
ANSTIS COVE. From a Sketch by the Author ... „ 371
SlDMOUTH ..401
PREFACE.
ONCE upon a time — as the story books say — it was the
custom for the author to preface his work with an apology.
Some authors, indeed, it is whispered, cleave to the custom
still. Perhaps they derive a certain occult satisfaction
from this indulgence in a " pride that apes humility." I
am afraid that / do not, and, good or bad, offer the world
no apology for the " Coasts of Devon."
It is not a guide book. The reader will not find a list of
the most desirable hotels ; there are no statistics about
population ; and he must seek elsewhere for information
anent the arrival and departure of the mail. This work
pretends to none of these things. It is only a guide book
in that it is an account of scenes and places along the
Devonshire seaboard, the result of a walk, or rather of a
series of walks, over the cliffs of the fairest county in
the west.
Although no excuse is made for its appearance, it would
be arrogating too much to say that such a work is " wanted."
There are other books on this " foam-laced margin of the
western sea," besides the guide books — books which tell
the traveller all sorts of facts which it becometh him to
know. But, speaking personally, when I take my walks
abroad I like a little more than bare information — the
xviii Preface.
age of a certain church, the height of a certain hill, the
birth, parentage, and education of some half-forgotten
"worthy." I like a little talk about the scenery, the
people, the surroundings, and this I do not, as a rule, find.
As a consequence I rise from the perusal of most of these
books, well — hungry. So, of these Coasts of Devon I
have tried to write in a manner less cut-and-dried than that
adopted by too many books on matters topographical — to
add to the ordinary dish a little condiment as it were. If
this condiment, such as it is, make the meal palatable, I
am satisfied. My " true intent is all for your delight."
While on the subject of works of a kindred nature, let
me not forget to acknowledge my indebtedness to brother
authors. No " tramp " can go far afoot without his
" Murray," or his " Ward," and to the excellent " Hand-
book " of the one, and the " Thorough Guides " of the
other, I owe not a little. Something, too, has been gleaned
from Walter White's " Walk from London to the Land's
End," and from Mackenzie Walcott's " Guide to the
Coasts of Devon and Cornwall," while the historical part
of the chapters relating to Lundy Island is derived in great
measure from the late Mr J. R. Chanter's interesting " Mono-
graph." One or two other works, chiefly of archaeological
and other learned societies, have been laid under contribution.
An acknowledgment has, I trust, been made in the footnotes ;
if any such has been omitted, I crave forgiveness.
It may be asked what is the best time for a walk over
these Devonshire cliffs. So far as the scenery goes, I
think late spring. The cliffs — of North Devon especially
— are never so beautiful as when seen through the tender
green of May foliage. But in Devonshire we have to
Preface. xix
co nsider another thing, and that is weather. And May, as
a rule, is not a fine month. From a weather point of
view then, experience has taught me that the best time is
during the last week in March and the first in April. The
ground is then hard and dry, the air fresh and invigorating,
and free from that soft languorous feeling that so often
accompanies the approach of summer. Fine weather, too,
usu ally prevails throughout the greater part of September,
when the woods have turned from green to gold, and the
cliffs look almost as well as when in the garb of spring.
But in September the tourist is abroad, the " season " is in
full swing at the watering places ; and some of us do not
care for tourists — even when as " guileless " as he of the
Saturday Review, and find res angusta domi less elastic
than the season's prices.
It would be ungrateful of me to conclude these remarks
without thanking " all whom it may concern " for the
favour they have accorded my former efforts. May I hope
that the present volume will not prove less interesting than
" Dartmoor," " Exmoor," and " The Rivers of Devon."
To me its compilation has been a labour of love. If the
reading give as much pleasure as the writing I am more
than content.
JOHN LL. WARDEN PAGE.
THE COASTS OF DEVON
AND
LUNDY ISLAND.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
Coast Scenery — The North Coast — The South Coast — Climate — Geology —
River Estuaries — Harbours and Seaports — Fishing Stations — Watering
Places — Historical Associations.
" AMIDST all our English counties Devonshire stands
unrivalled for the exquisite loveliness of its scenery." So
writes the author of " The Fern Paradise " — a man who,
in the pursuit of his delightful hobby, has probably seen as
much of Devonshire as any one of its inhabitants, and whose
opinion, therefore, is entitled to respect. But what
constitutes this loveliness ? It is, he says, contrast. And
nowhere is this contrast more marked than in the coast line
" now frowning with barren but lofty grandeur at the
waves, now clothed from the highest point of the cliff to
the waters' edge with one deep dark mass of vegetation."
But whether of dark and rugged slate, as on the north
coast, or of the rich sandstone that stretches mile after mile
along the shore of the English Channel, there is no
monotony. " For the grand rocks sink at intervals to give
place to magnificent bays which sweep gracefully from
cliff's point to cliff's point, and help to fling over the coast
scenery of this the most beautiful of English counties the
same aspect of variety which is its most charming
characteristic."
B
2 Coast Scenery.
Although these bays are a feature of the south rather
than of the north coast, their comparative absence from the
scenery that borders the shore of the Severn Sea in no wise
detracts from the variety of the coast line. For, if you take
the whole extent from Glenthorne to Marsland Mouth on
the border of Cornwall, no two miles are alike. At one point
rises a headland seven hundred feet above the sea ; from it
you descend to a sheltered cove to which the shore falls
gently. This is followed by a line of cliffs, rugged, worn,
and hollowed by the ceaseless gnawing of the waves,
perhaps two hundred feet high, and the cliffs will end in a
low peninsula shutting in an inlet that runs up to green
pastures watered by a trout stream, or dropping to another
cove, overshadowed by some majestic precipice falling nearly
sheer to the surf that seldom ceases to break over the
black rocks at its base. And so the coast trends away
westward — here a rock-bound cove, here a towering cliff,
not always, nor indeed often, perpendicular, but sloping at
a steep angle half-way to the water, covered with short turf
or bramble, gorse, and bracken.
The barrier that looks down upon the English Channel is
different. There is less of stern grandeur, more of bright
colour, more of vegetation. It would seem as though the
southern sun had left some of its warmth in the glowing cliffs
of Teignmouth and Dawlish and Sidmouth, in the pink-tinted
limestone of Berry Head, in the crags of Anstis Cove.
There is a richer green in the grass — perhaps caused by
the contrast between green and red — a more abundant
growth in the plant life. Here trees and bushes spring in
every combe, growing sometimes to the very edge of the
tide. Often to the colder and more exposed glens of the
north these are denied ; the trees either cluster about the
head far in from the sea, or are scrubby and ill-conditioned,
with heads turned back inland and bodies aslant to the fury
of the gales that come roaring in from the Atlantic.
Geology. 3
And yet there is not so much difference between the
climate of North and South Devon as one might expect.
People are apt to imagine that because a place is on the
north coast it must be far colder than one on the south. To
many — nay, to most — the very name North Devon sounds
chilly, while Torquay and Sidmouth are synonymous with
warmth and a climate almost Italian. Yet Ilfracombe has
much the same temperature as Torquay, with the advantage
of being cooler in summer, while Westward Ho is said to
be nearly as warm and far less enervating than Sidmouth.
Yet Sidmouth enjoys something which no other Devonshire
town enjoys in equal measure — a comparative immunity
from rain. It is the driest place in Devonshire.
The contrast in scenery between the northern and
southern coasts is due to the difference in geological
formation. No part of the English seaboard is more
interesting to the men of Jermyn-street than this Devonshire
coast line. In popular language, and dispensing for the
time with terms scientific, the northern coast is of dark
slate rock, worn and weathered into wild inlets and fissures,
and, as I have already shown, of most rugged and uneven
outline. Of this, about one half, extending from West
Somerset to Barnstaple Bay, may be classified under the
name given it — because of its prevalence in the county
itself — the Devonian series ; while the other half, reaching
to the borders of Cornwall, belongs to the Culm measures.
In South Devon the Devonian rocks run from near the
mouth of the Yealm to the neighbourhood of Berry Head,
and the scenery of this part of the coast naturally bears some
resemblance to that of the north. But from Torbay, with its
limestones, we soon reach a formation very different. Right
away into Dorsetshire stretch cliffs of red and yellow
sandstone — cliffs of an outline much less broken, of height
far less variable, and without that foreshore of jagged rock
that makes the coast about Hartland and Mortehoe and the
B 2
4 River Estuaries.
Start so terrible to the mariner. Indeed, these south-
eastern shores of Devon, unswept by Atlantic storms, wear
an aspect of repose to which the stern barriers of the
north, north-west, and south-west are strangers.
Another feature which adds to the variety of the Devon-
shire seaboard is found in the rivers. No less than thirteen
fall into the sea at different spots along the coast line. Of
these, by far the greater number flow into the English
Channel — indeed, North Devon can claim but three of
them — and one of these (the Lyn) is a mere torrent,
though one of the most beautiful streams in the county.
Now, most of these rivers have estuaries, and, as all these
estuaries are more or less wooded, the change in scenery
from barren cliff to wooded hill or slope is all the more
delightful.
Just where the valley breaks its gyves
The river cheers another scene —
A land of orchards and of hives,
And glebes of more than wonted green.*
And you come upon them so suddenly, too. As a rule,
nothing hints at the presence of a river except, perhaps, a
deeper fold in the undulations. You turn a corner, as it
were, and lo ! there is a flood of clear green water, generally
off Dartmoor, whose misty tors you will so often see against
the northern sky, "coming," in the words of an old
chronicler, " coming slowly, and, as it were, tired, to meet
the sea."
At or near the mouths of these rivers are the great
harbours. Chiefest, of course, is Plymouth, one of the
finest in the world, protected, as it is, by the long line of
the Breakwater. Next in importance comes Dartmouth,
a haven perfectly land-locked, where, though the harbour
is the estuary of a small river, the water is always deep.
Plymouth, as all the world knows, is a great naval seaport —
though, even in commerce, it is the first town in Devonshire;
* E. G. ALDRIDGE ("The Two Edens").
Harbours. 5
Dartmouth is more of a pleasure resort, being one of the
most important quarters of the yachting fraternity. The
narrow estuary, flanked by steep hills three or four
hundred feet high, with picturesque Dartmouth climbing
one slope and Kingswear the other, is one of the loveliest
havens in England.
The other seaports on the southern coast are Teignmouth,
Exmouth — from which most of the vessels pass through the
canal across the river to Exeter — Torquay (an artificial har-
bour), and Salcombe, which has a beautiful natural harbour
within the mouth of a winding estuary known as Salcombe
river. And there is of course the great fishing port of Brix-
ham, known throughout the kingdom for its trawlers.
In North Devon the leading port is Bideford, under which
is Appledore, nearer the mouth of the river, where there is
a brisk shipbuilding and ship-repairing trade. But Bideford
can hardly be called a harbour in the same sense as
Plymouth or Dartmouth, for not only is it a good four miles
from the sea on the left bank of theTorridge,but the approach
is over a bar of sand which is sometimes a very nasty place
indeed. Barnstaple, too, is a port and not a harbour, for it
lies even further inland on the shallow Taw, a river which
unites with the Torridge a mile from the sea. These sister
ports do a considerable coasting trade — Bideford in days of
old was famous, but its glory has now departed, and no
vessel of any size comes higher than Appledore. Last
comes the little harbour of Ilfracombe, overhung with
wooded cliffs and sheltering a fair number of small craft,
which are not so much an index of its trade as of the fact
that it is a pilot-boat station and the only real harbour of
refuge between Portishead and Lundy. I have seen a dozen
small steamers packed into it at once, driven back from " down'
along" by a westerly gale, and twenty or thirty sailingvessels,
and there have been times when you could walk from one
side of the harbour to another on the vessels' decks.
6 Watering Places.
Next to Brixham, the fishing stations are Plymouth, Beer,
and Clovelly, the latter a romantic village in North Devon,
its whitewashed cottages clinging to the hillside very much
after the fashion of a cluster of bees. These are the head-
quarters, though every port and estuary has its fishing boats,
and very picturesque they look returning in a long line
with the rising sun reddening the rich tan of their sails.
The mild climate of Devonshire has caused health resorts
to spring into existence all along its coasts. At the head
stands Torquay, which, although far from the oldest, has a
population nearly equal to that of all the others put together.
Then there is Paignton, close by, with a famous bathing
beach, and, on the other side, Teignmouth, Dawlish,
Exmouth, Budleigh Salterton, and Sidmouth — the oldest, and
at one time the most aristocratic, seaside resort in Devon-
shire. And in the extreme east is Seaton. These are the
principal watering places in the South, though perhaps
Salcombe will consider itself equal at any rate to Seaton, and,
latterly, Torcross has put in a claim to notice. Torcross is
a village between Start Point and Dartmouth, on the fine
open shore of Start Bay, at one end of the long fresh-water
lake of Slapton Lea, which is only separated from the salt
water by a bank of shingle. But Torcross is hardly a
watering place — yet.
In North Devon Ilfracombe easily takes the palm, and
its situation, amid some of the wildest and most romantic
scenery in the West will always give it a position to which
other towns may lay claim in vain. Still lovelier is Lynmouth,
at the mouth of the wooded gorge of the Lyn. As for
Westward Ho, it is healthy and has good golf links, and
that is all that can be said for it. It is mighty dull ; and
were it not for its position, close to the best scenery in
Devonshire — and the golf links aforesaid — would, I take it,
have few visitors. It lies on the western shore of Barnstaple
Bay, while a few miles eastward, the other side of Baggy
History. 7
Point — ugly name for a fine headland — is another embryo
health resort called Woolacombe, which, though at present
but a terrace or two, bids fair some day to become greater,
having that rarity in North Devon — a magnificent sweep of
sands.
The historical associations of the Devonshire coast
cluster for the most part about the ports of Plymouth and
Dartmouth and beautiful Torbay. Of very early days,
when it was peopled by tribes of Celts — who held their
own long after the districts further east had submitted
to Saxon rule — we know but little, though the clans
inhabiting the northern parts of the county appear to
have been of different race to those of South Devon. *
Here and there the cliffs are crowned with earthworks,
dating doubtless from the day when this land was known
as Dyvneint, or the Deep Valleys — the origin of the present
name of Devon. But what manner of men threw them up,
what battles were waged about them, is matter for surmise —
a surmise that is never likely now to be reduced to certainty.
We only know that Damnonia, the Latinised name not only
of Devonshire, but of all the district west of the Axe,
perhaps of the Avon, was, when the Saxons arrived, a great
and powerful kingdom. Even in 705, nearly a hundred
years after Cenwealh had driven the Britons beyond the
Parret, St. Aldhelm addressed their King Geraint as " the
most glorious King of Damnonia." It was not until the
reign of Athelstan that the Tamar became their eastern
boundary. But the Celtic blood lingered, and lingers still
to this day. " The Celtic element can be traced from the
Axe, the last heathen frontier, to the extremities of Corn-
wall, of course increasing in amount as we reach the lands
which were more recently conquered, and therefore less
perfectly Teutonised. Devonshire is less Celtic than Corn-
* "The Early History and Aborigines of North Devon," by J. R.
Chanter. (Trans. Dev. Assoc., ii., p. 57.)
8 History.
wall, and Somersetshire is less Celtic than Devonshire, but
not one of the three counties can be called a pure Teutonic
land like Kent or Norfolk." Thus Professor Freeman.*
The coasts of Devon — for it is with the coasts, and not
with the interior, that we have to do — show even less signs
of Roman occupation than of British. A Roman villa near
Seaton, the head of a Roman standard at Sidmouth, a coin
here, a weapon there, are almost the only traces of the
rule of Imperial Rome. Probably the Romans had enough
to do without hunting the natives from their wild fastnesses
in this remote corner of Britain. At all events, there is
little trace of them west of Exeter, though they may have
had stations at Totnes and King's Tamerton, near
Plymouth. Neither of these places, however, are on the
coast. Whether " Ad Axium " was Axmouth, and where
was the site of " Moridunum," has never been satisfactorily
settled.
But our seaboard had enough and to spare of the Danes.
In fact it is said that Devonshire was the first county to
suffer from their inroads. Scarcely an estuary or seaport
— so far as there were seaports in those days — between
Countisbury and Hartland, between Plymouth and Lyme,
that they did not visit, and, except at Wembury near
Plymouth, and at Appledore, they seem generally to have,
in the language of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, " wrought
much evil by burning and man slaying," and to have
" taken much booty with them to their ships." Ilfracomber
Teignmouth, Exmouth, Seaton, all suffered from the
" heathen men," and probably many a place beside, of
which the chronicler had never even heard the name.
With the Norman invasion our coast had no concern
whatever. In his march westward, William passed through
the centre of the county, and it may be questioned whether
the dwellers on the coasts knew much about him, or had
* " Norman Conquest."
History. g
more than the vaguest of notions that fifteen months before
a battle had been fought that placed their Saxon conquerors
beneath the heel of a conqueror stronger than they.
Possibly if they had they would have cared little, for Devon
was still more British than English, and William showed
little disposition to harry any but those who stood in his
path.
Dartmouth was the first place to come to the fore. It
was a rendezvous for Cceur de Lion's Crusaders. Plymouth
followed as the starting point for the Earl of Lancaster's
expedition to Guienne in 1287. Both sent ships to the
siege of Calais, and both were at feud with France for a
couple of centuries at least. Twice the Black Prince is
said to have landed at Plymouth on his return from France,
and Dartmouth signalised herself by nearly annihilating a
French force under Du Chastel when Henry the Fourth
was king. From Dartmouth sailed " Kingmaker " Warwick.
At Plymouth landed Katharine of Arragon. The fleet
that dispersed the Armada lay in Plymouth Sound, and
from the Cattewater sailed the Mayflo-wer for the New
World beyond the sea. But Plymouth came chiefly to the
front during the Civil War, holding out against the Royalists
through three sieges. There was fighting, too, at Salcombe,
but this time the besieged were Royalists. Of this we shall
treat later.
Torbay is celebrated as being the spot where William of
Orange landed in 1688, and the people of Brixham still
preserve the stone upon which he first set foot. With the
rest of the coast history has not much to do, though perhaps
Bideford deserves passing notice as a port of some enterprise
in those stirring days when Devon was the first to send forth
ships to explore the shores of America. These " seadogs
of Devon " made the name of their county glorious, and
Devon may well be proud of such men as Drake, Raleigh,
Gilbert, and Grenville.
io Lundy Island.
But merely as an introduction this chapter has grown
long enough. As it is, nothing has been said of Lundy
Island, which, although no part of Devonshire, is, in a
manner, connected with it. This we shall reach by-and-by.
Now let us start on our walk, and see this fine scenery,
these historic seaports, for ourselves.
PART I.
THE COAST OF NORTH DEVON.
CHAPTER II.
THE BORDERS OF DEVON AND SOMERSET.
The great sea banks, whose summits thrive
Where the long clouds of autumn smoke,
See the red rays of sunset dive
In the leaf-billows of the oak.
E. G. ALDRIDGE (" The Two Edens ").
On the Moorland — Coaches — County Gate — Old Barrow — The Seaward
Slopes — Valley of the Lyn — Coscombe — Glenthorne — The Coast
Pathway — The Foreland — A Foggy Incident — The Gun Caverns —
Countisbury.
FRESH from across the moorlands comes the breeze,
stirring the heather till it rustles again, and whistling with
cheery note through the long coarse grass. Above it drives
the white clouds merrily — below it crinkles the sea into a
thousand crisp wavelets. Shadows move slowly over the
waste, turning each hill momentarily purple, staining the
dingy waters of the Severn Sea with a passing dye of blue.
Down in the combe there is a " moving" in the tree tops —
each crown bends responsive to the masterful wind. But
beneath, about the boles, there is stillness, for the combe is
deep, and the great gorse-bespangled slopes shut out all
but the faintest zephyr.
For awhile there is no sound or sign of life — the wind
and the sunshine seem to fill the world. Not even the hum
of a bee laden with spoil from the heather, sweetest of all
12 The Moorland Coach.
honey, breaks upon the ear. Indeed, it is yet too early for
the bees to be about, for the little pink bells do not show till
June at earliest, and this is springtime. The white road
running over the moors eleven, twelve, thirteen hundred
feet above the sea is empty throughout its long perspective.
Not even a shepherd is in sight.
Yet the solitude is not oppressive. We know that hidden
in the valley just over the brow are the scattered cottages of
Oare : that below, among the oaks at our feet, is Glenthorne,
and that' beyond the bend in the road is Cosgate, a little
house placed at the gate in the wall that marks the boundary
between Devon and Somerset. And surely this broad road,
wild though it be, connecting Lynton with Porlock cannot
long lie desert. No — even as we gaze, a dark mass tops the
distant brow, and the " Katerfelto " coach, crowded with
holiday-seekers, comes rattling towards us, drawn by four
stout horses which have not yet had time to tire of the
West Country hills. On it rolls, the harness jingling gaily,
and the bars swinging with motion almost rhythmical with
the even trot of the steeds. As it approaches Cosgate the
guard executes a fanfare on the horn ; the housewife, with
hands fresh from the flour bin, rushes to the door and
deftly catches a parcel ; a couple of children tumble over
each other in their haste to get past mother's skirts ; there
is a smile and a word of greeting, and the shining black
and red vehicle swings through the gate into Devonshire, and
vanishes with another fanfare round the heathery slope of
Old Barrow. And again all is silence.
In this land of no railways, these coaches are quite a
feature, and it goes without saying that they are by far the
pleasantest means of reaching " the delicious scenery of
North Devon." Furthermore, to those approaching it from
the eastward they are the only means — unless, indeed, the
traveller (being exempt from the pangs of mal de mer)
elect to take one of the excursion steamers that ply so
Old Barrow. 13
frequently during the summer months to Lynmouth and
Ilfracombe. And what a drive it is ! From the very
terminus at Minehead the road passes through scenes of
beauty ever changing. The first stage of six miles to
Porlock is through a country fertile and richly wooded, yet
with wide sweeps of moorland on both sides — the seaward
hills of Minehead and Selworthy and Bossington on the
right, Grabhurst and Exmoor on the left, the latter heaving
up in vast shoulders to its culminating point of Dunkery
Beacon, seventeen hundred feet above the sea.
At Porlock — old-world village, beloved of Southey — the
moor begins in earnest, and the horses have a severe piece
of collar work in the two-mile ascent of one of the steepest
hills in Britain. Then comes an easy stretch of several
miles straight over the moorlands, with wonderful peeps of
the sea hundreds of feet below, and of far-reaching steppes
of moor rolling away to the sky line. And so Cosgate is
reached, and Somerset exchanged for Devon.
Behind Cosgate — it is also called County Gate — the road,
as we have said, winds round the base of a heathery slope.
The swelling (one cannot call it a point) nearest the sea is
crowned by an ancient earthwork. Who built Old Barrow,
and when, is a matter for speculation. It is not a barrow
at all, by the way, but a " camp," and the three concentric
rings are in a singularly perfect state of preservation.
Standing just within Cosgate, on the very frontiers of
Devonshire, it seems as though it were erected to command
the entrance into that county. But this is, of course, mere
fancy. Old Barrow existed long before the counties of
Devon and Somerset were heard of — certainly before the
days of Alfred, and possibly, nay probably, before the Saxon
came over, ostensibly to drive out the northern barbarian,
but really to found a kingdom of his own. Scarcely,
indeed, is it too much to suppose that it was a refuge of
the wild Celt at the day when Caesar landed on the Kentish
14 Old Barrow.
shore. A little later, when the masters of the world drove
their roads hither and thither over the mountains and
valleys, the hills and dales of Britain, Old Barrow was
perhaps a Roman camp, and Roman eagles and Roman
helmets may have glittered on this moorland fastness of the
West. The earthwork is not of Roman plan, certainly, but
this does not prove that the Romans never occupied it.
Like the thrush, the Legionaries often found the nests of
others vastly convenient, and in many and many an instance
the poor Briton was driven from his last refuge by the
ruthless conqueror.
So, in any event, Old Barrow is very ancient — so ancient,
indeed, that the ramparts have worn down, till like the low
mud wall of Rome itself they may almost be leapt over. For
even the outermost vallum is but nine feet high at the
highest part, while the second rises but three feet, and the
inner varies from four to six. In the centre of the space
inclosed by this last, which is about a hundred feet in
diameter, is a small mound ; and this may have been a look-
out station or the place for the chieftain's hut or tent. On
the northern or landward side was the entrance.
The downs about this earthwork are so unusually dry and
free from bog that one wonders how the inhabitants
managed for water. There are no traces of a well or spring,
and, so far as I know, the nearest stream is in the combe
above Glenthorne — at least six hundred feet below. As we
lie on these weathered ramparts and gaze into the depths
beneath, we idly picture the beleaguered savage stealing forth
under cover of night and gliding down the steep hillside to
fetch the precious fluid. How he fared when a cordon was
drawn round his fortress is a puzzle.
From Old Barrow, which is eleven hundred and thirty-two
feet above the sea, you can see the Channel for miles, from
the great promontory of the Foreland on the English side,
and from the peninsula of Gower on the Welsh, to the
Glenthorne. — Lyn Valley. 15
islets called the Steep and Flat Holm and the cliffs of
Penarth. Opposite, if the day be clear, range after range
of mountains rises from the horizon, blurred here and there
by the smoke of collieries or the smelting furnaces of
Landore and Swansea. Scores, sometimes hundreds, of
sails may be counted on the narrowing waterway : stately
ship and barque, graceful schooner, clumsy coaster, while,
more numerous than either,
The floating cargo tanks
Of Bremen, Leith, and Hull,
as Rudyard Kipling calls them — in other words, steamers —
plough steadily to and fro.
It is a pity that the water is not cleaner. The colour of
this Bristol Channel is undeniably dingy, and, say what we
can in its favour, it is, even down here, many degrees
removed from the clear green of the Atlantic or the blue of
the English Channel. Still there are many beautiful tints,
and, save when seen under a leaden sky, the blending of
grey and blue, and at times a kind of rose colour, has quite
a rich effect. And what adds to the charm is that the water
is so often seen through a mass of foliage, and if anything
can beautify and refresh and throw into contrast the
duller colours of Nature, surely it is the transparent green of
the oak.
And oaks are everywhere along the seaboard. Look into
the Glenthorne Combe below. Oaks surround and nearly
hide the mansion, oaks fill the bottoms, oaks climb the hills,
till the very heather is crowded out, and for the first six
hundred feet above the sea can get little foothold. For
seven miles eastward these oak woods cling to the hills that
fall from the bare moor to the boulder beach. But at Por-
lock Bay they cease, its further horn, Hurlstone Point,
thrusting itself into the waters treeless as the hill tops
themselves.
So much for the view seaward. Towards the land we
1 6 The Lyn Valley.
can see little but the moorland, unless we cross the downs
for half a mile or so. Then the hill sinks abruptly into a
deep valley running parallel with the coast — the valley of
the Lyn. Here are more oaks, and many elms and sycamores
too, for this Lyn stream is wooded nobly. Do you see that
deep fold yonder running well into the moors at right angles
to the Lyn ? That is the Badgworthy Valley, and branching
from it some three miles distant is the Doone Glen, once,
if tradition and Mr. Blackmore are to be credited, the lair of
a gang of robbers — ay, and worse than that.
Faint on the ear rises the voice of the Lyn. He is not in
flood to-day, for the weather has been, for a wonder, dry,
and it is only after heavy and continuous rain that the little
river becomes really noisy. But what the local rhyme says
of the Horner Brook — there is less rhyme than reason, by the
way — is equally true of the Lyn :
When Dunkery's head cannot be seen,
Horner will have a flooded stream !
and when the rain clouds settle in good earnest on the downs
about Lucott Hill a flood of brown water fills the bottom of
every combe and goyal and gully and
Down from his mountain lair careers the Lyn.
The Lyn Valley is not populous. There is Oare certainly
— you can perhaps distinguish the little grey church in that
grove of ash and sycamore, side by side with the farm
where, according to Blackmore, the Ridds once dwelt, and
where sweet Lorna was sheltered so long from the fierce
outlaws of Badgworthy. There are a few cottages, too, at
Malmsmead Bridge further down — in fact, the only group
of any size in the whole parish of Oare — and there is
another hamlet at Brendon. Here and there, set among
the pastures stretching up the steppes, may be seen a
farmhouse or cottar's dwelling, here and there a thatched
linhay (which is good Devonshire for shed}. But with these
Glenthorne. 17
exceptions the glen of the Lyn has suffered little or nothing
at the hand of man.
Such is the scenery on this the borderland of Devon and
Somerset. There is no district so lovely in all the lovely
West as this about the spurs of Exmoor, no coast line more
beautiful, and perhaps none more grand — certainly none
more lofty — between Portishead and Land's End. This Lyn
stream alone, short as it is, would take a week's exploration.
As for the coast between Glenthorne and Ilfracombe, you
may know it for years without satiety. In it are the most
romantic coves, above it the most mountainous bluffs and
headlands anywhere in the West or South of England. And
it is along the face of these great downs, this " massive sea
front of Exmoor," that we are now about to wander.
To reach the cliff pathway we must go down four or five
hundred feet into the deep combe under Cosgate — Coscombe
it is called. Down the bottom beneath the trees the air is
musical with the babble of a tiny stream, here murmuring
over pebbles, there tumbling over shelves of rock, but all
the while falling rapidly to the sea — falling in less than a
mile close on a thousand feet. Ferns dip their fronds into
the runnel, hawthorn spans it with a bridge of snow. In
spring its banks are starred with primroses — later the wild
hyacinth takes possession, filling the air with its delicate
perfume.
A hundred and fifty feet above the sea the glen opens,
and here, in a little green plateau among the woods, is
Glenthorne. The situation is unique ; never was mansion
placed in spot more romantic. At the back of the house
are one or two patches of meadow ; all about it, except to
the north, are towering hills, their tops only visible above
the sea of foliage. The only drawback is lack of sunshine ;
it must be still early in the day when the sun sinks behind
those western downs. Yet pastures and gardens are green
and fertile.
i8 Glenthorne.— Cliff Path.
The house is a pretty building in the Tudor style,
surrounded on two sides by a terrace overlooking a
diminutive lawn. Everything has been done to make the
little domain perfect of its kind. Along the cliffs stretch
the gardens, with seats placed here and there beneath trees
that almost overhang the restless tide below, the murmur
of which mingles with the gentle whisperings of the leaves.
Towards the bottom of the glen the stream is crossed by
weirs forming miniature fishponds, where, through the
moving shadows, the trout dart to and fro.
To the casual visitor the house is not shown. A peep
through the windows, however, reveals that the walls are
covered with some old works of art, and that there are
many " objects of bigotry and virtue." Murray tells us
that in the hall is a mantelpiece that once belonged to
Cardinal Wolsey.
A pathway leads westward to the kitchen garden and
carriage road. Although the descent through Coscombe is
but a mile, this drive does not reach the high road, right
overhead, in less than three ! This, more than any amount
of description, will give some idea of the mountainous
character of the country. The drive is a series of zigzags.
For a short distance we follow it where it runs through
a pine wood, leaving it at one of the elbows to pass through
a stone gateway surmounted by a lion couchant and flanked
by towers presided over by eagles — an unexpected piece of
architecture in a spot so secluded as this. Beyond is the
open face of the cliff-slopes that sink so many hundreds of
feet to the beach or foreshore of grey boulders.
About midway in the slope a mossy track leads westward,
at first below overhanging masses of rock, half hid in
heather and broom, or starting forth from a thicket of
rhododendron. For the owner of Glenthorne has managed
to combine most happily nature with cultivation, and shrubs
that are usually seen in gardens mingle with the wild plants
Foreland. — Desolate Combe. 19
inherent to the soil as if to the manner born. But in half a
mile all this comes to an end, and we reach a wicket, the
boundary of Mr. Halliday's domain.
And now, full in front, looms the great mass of the Fore-
land, the pinkish-grey screes that strew its flank giving it a
colouring of extraordinary richness. The bare hillsides,
above and below, are patched with these screes, too, the
debris of countless centuries. Here and there a few oaks
manage to -pick up a living on the wind-swept slopes, but,
as a rule, there is little but grass, fern, or heather, till,
rounding a corner, we pass into the wooded glen called
Wingate Combe — a deep cleft, watered, as usual, by a
streamlet. Making a great curve inland, the path sweeps
round the upper end of the glen and crosses to Desolate
Combe, down which courses another stream, meeting where
the combes converge, five hundred feet below, the brook of
the Wingate Glen. Thence, though hidden from our view
by masses of foliage, the brook falls headlong to the sea
beneath a conical mass of rock called — I know not why —
Sir Robert's Chair. Perhaps it may owe its name to one Sir
Robert Croscombe, who lived "once upon a time" at Cros-
combe Barton in Martinhoe, and who, for his sins, haunts the
cliffs of that seaboard parish, accompanied by certain hounds
who breathe blue flame and behave, in short, as phantom
hounds always do behave. But this is only conjecture.
Desolate Combe, with its " rounded woods dark with
heavy foliage " and warm, sheltered nooks, certainly belies
its name. But the lonely hill farm at the top of the combe,
far, far overhead, and which is called Desolate, too, has a
name fitting enough ; and it is the farm, doubtless, that has
given its name to the combe — not the combe to the farm.
And barrenness follows. Save for a stunted thorn or
two, the cliffs are again bare — crags break through the
bracken, and screes cover fearful steeps. We appreciate
the words of a guide book. Alluding to this pathway, it
C 2
2O Rodney Cove.
says : " It is called a horse path, but few would venture
along it otherwise than on foot." Indeed, to call it Alpine
is not far-fetched, and it is without the protection to Alpine
paths afforded. There is no fence whatever, nor any sign
of wall, save in the gully called Pudleep Gurts, where the
path is carried onward by a wall built across the glen. But
even this has no parapet.
Perhaps it is as well that it has not. For though the wall
may be twenty feet high on one side, it is level with the
ground on the other, so sharply does the land fall seaward.
And there are traces that show that in wet weather a
torrent pours down to the beach, sweeping right over it.
Twigs and rotten branches lie in all directions, and, in
the stony bed of the gully, the ruin of decayed trees, prone
beneath the shade of those still growing, adds to the wild-
ness of the scene.
Now into a wooded recess — each with its brook and
each, with rare exception, its grove — now out on to the
breezy hillside this romantic pathway wanders, until three
miles from Glenthorne it strikes a grassy road zigzagging
down past Rodney Farm to a little dent in the shore called
Rodney (or Countisbury) Cove. Here there is a strip of
shingle, just enough for a coaster that does not mind a little
bumping to lie while discharging the cargo of coal, which
straining horses drag up the hills to the farms and hamlet
above, and, as the Devon people call it, " in over."
Leaving the green ride that passes over the summit to
Countisbury village, we descend through a dip in the hills
to Coddow Combe, a Valley of Desolation indeed. On one
side heaves up the shoulder of a rocky ridge, on the other
the stony flank of the Foreland. From the turf at the
bottom of the combe to the height of three hundred feet at
least climb the vast fields of splintered rock. It looks as if
a swarm of giant navvies had been at work tipping refuse
down the declivity. At the foot of it is the usual brook- a
The Foreland. 21
short-lived thing, scarcely a mile in length, which ends in
a narrow thread of spray falling over the precipice at the
combe mouth.
It is easy enough to follow the path round the head of
this glen to the top of the Foreland. The height of the
actual promontory is about seven hundred feet, but it is
much loftier at the base, where the land rises rapidly to
Countisbury Common and Lloyd's Signal Station, which is
only a few feet under a thousand. The panorama that
comes suddenly into view as we top the ridge is really
magnificent. At our feet lies Lynmouth Bay, with the twin
villages of Lynton and Lynmouth perched, the one it the
top, the other at the bottom of the wooded steeps that look
down upon the meeting of the Lyn stream with the sea.
Beyond rises the rampart of the Valley of Rocks, and a
line of coast, here timbered, here bare, but always bold,
stretches westward, ending in the serrated outline of High
Veer, over which looms dim the head of the Great Hang-
man. Looking back, we can trace the coast line nearly to
Glenthorne, while the eastern limit is the range of the
North Hill running from Porlock Bay towards Minehead.
It has been said that there are the remains of a Danish
encampment on the Foreland, but I have walked from end
to end more than once and can find nothing of the kind.
It was once, however, under cultivation, or, at any rate,
divided into fields ; and low banks, the foundations of
ancient fences, may be distinguished right out to the point
where it falls in a steep and rocky slope to the sea.
The Foreland is a nasty place in a fog. I have vivid
recollections of an adventure in the bay below during the
worst specimen known for fifty years. We put off in one
of the Lynmouth shore-boats to await the arrival of the
steamer from Ilfracombe up Channel. After spending an
hour and a half drifting about the bay searching for the
steamer, which, by the way, was meanwhile searching for
22 Sudden Squalls.
us, we gave it up, and returned to terra firma. Scarcely
had we felt our way thither when the fog lifted, and we
discovered that the steamer had been within an ace of
running on the Foreland, being only stopped by the noise
of the breakers. When we at last got on board the scene
was the reverse of cheerful. One lady was in hysterics,
another in tears, and giving promise of lapsing at the
shortest notice into a similar condition. And small blame
to them. A minute more, and they would have been
shipwrecked, and perhaps had little chance of indulging in
either tears or laughter again.
Another danger of this coast is the suddenness with
which the squalls come tearing down the combes. As a
rule, there is no warning whatever. I have heard of a pilot
boat (than which there are no craft more staunch in the
Bristol Channel), while lying in a dead calm, suddenly
thrown on her beam ends by one of these moorland gusts,
and I have myself been on board a steamer which has
had her sail blown away off Coddow Combe. It will be
long before the Ilfracombe people forget the loss of the
yacht Monarch, that capsized off the Torrs with so
lamentable a loss of life. It is not without good reason
that I take this opportunity of warning all whom it may
concern against attempting to sail along these shores
without competent boatmen.
I had nearly forgotten the caves beneath the Foreland.
There are four of them, and they are known as the Gun
Caverns, owing to the booming sound made by the waves
driven into them by a storm. With the exception of the
one farthest east, they penetrate the cliffs for a hundred
feet or so, and are about fifteen feet high. But the eastern
cave is double the length of the others. The strata in and
about these caves is interesting, the lines being nearly
vertical, tilted at a sharp angle, or contorted into serpentine
curves. The rocks are best seen from the sea, but the caves
Countisbury. 23
must be visited from the land, and then only by a very
rough scramble by way of Sillery Sands and at dead low
water.
On the southern side of Countisbury Common lies the
church and the handful of weather-worn cottages that make
up Countisbury village. The church in particular has a
bleached look, as it well may, for is it not drenched by
every shower that scuds across the moor ? It is not an
interesting church, and has nothing noticeable about it,
except a low pinnacled tower, and a queer screen composed
of a set of rails supporting a heavy architrave. The style of
architecture is a poor Perpendicular. Abutting on the
churchyard, in which will be noticed the graves of many
drowned sailors, is the village school, encased in an armour
of slate, almost the only building of any size in the village —
there are only about a dozen cottages altogether — except
the Blue Bull, where the wayfarer may get refreshment of
thorough Devonshire kind — excellent butter and cream,
home-made whortleberry jam, and eggs laid that morning —
eggs that know not the interior of a box, and on which the
odour of sawdust passeth not.
CHAPTER III.
LYNMOUTH AND ITS SURROUNDINGS.
A river bounds o'er bouldered ways
And clasps a dozen affluent rills,
While up the glen I seem to gaze
Into the secret heart of hills.
E. G. ALDRIDGE.
Countisbury Hill — Coach Accidents — An Earthwork — Lynmouth — Glen
Lyn — The Cliff Railway — Lynton — Valley of Rocks — Legends — Ring
Cliff Cove— Duty Point — Lee Abbey — Story of the Whichehalses — The
Doones.
THE road from Countisbury to Lynmouth is not of a
nature calculated to soothe the nervous. In a mile and a
half it drops eight hundred feet, the last part being so steep
that I have had to pass my arm round the rail of the box
seat of a waggonette to keep myself from slipping on to the
backs of the horses. It is true that the cushions were of
that abomination known as " American leather ; " still, it
needs a pretty good angle to disturb the balance of a sitting
man even when American leather covers the matter sat
upon.
Cut midway between the sea and the rocky ridge of the
Torrs that separate the Channel from the glen of the Lyn,
this road commands a view that is excelled by few highways
in the kingdom. The hillside sinks so abruptly to the sea
that you cannot see the beach below — you look right down
upon the waters of the bay patched with shifting light and
shadow. At your back the huge mass of the Foreland,
stained brown and pink and red, seems to shut out all the
eastern world ; westward the view is bounded by the
Countisbury Hill. — Coach Accidents. 25
heights of Lynton. Lynton itself never looks more
picturesque than from this " cornice " road — at sunset the
effect is quite aerial. Then the rather too obtrusive hotels
(not to speak of Mr. Newnes' new mansion on the hill top)
are marvellously softened by the subdued light ; hard angles
vanish and staring windows become absorbed in the misty
blue. The Valley of Rocks Hotel with its wings and turrets
becomes the palace of a magician, and Lynton might be a
city of the Thousand and One Nights.
On the seaward side of this road nothing but a low bank
of turf and stones prevents coach and passengers rolling
down the giddy height on to the beach. In places, indeedr
this bank hardly seems high or substantial enough to be an
efficient protection, and one wonders what would happen if
the horses bolted and ran the heavy vehicle against it,
I remember once asking the driver if there ever had been
an accident. He replied in the negative, but casually added
that a -wheel had come off a few days before. Evidently as
it was the off wheel the matter made no impression upon
him. " Suppose it had been the near wheel ? " I suggested.
He smiled and looked thoughtful.
The incident reminds me of a remark made by an artist
friend, a man of some eminence in the old Water Colour
Society. I once tried to persuade him to take a coach ride
from Minehead to Ilfracombe, and strove to calm his
fears by saying that accidents were almost unknown.
" Accidents ! " he exclaimed, with a humorous twinkle
in his eye ; " they never call anything an accident in
North Devon unless somebody is killed ! "
As a matter of fact, accidents — whether of the kind
defined by my friend or otherwise — are of the rarest occur-
rence, and this speaks volumes for the care and skill of
these North Devon coachmen. During an acquaintance
with this country, now extending over many years, I can
only recall one accident attended with fatal results. It
26 Coach Accidents.
happened in 1893 on the hillside facing us, where the
Ilfracombe road as it enters Lynton sweeps round the head
of the precipice above the torrent of the West Lyn. The
horses, startled by some children waving flags, bolted, and
rushed headlong towards the brow of the tremendous hill
that drops to Lynmouth. Here the driver managed to throw
them. Had they once started down the hill every soul
would probably have been killed. The coach capsized ;
one horse fell over the precipice into the wooded glen
below and was killed, and the passengers were hurled —
some into the road, others over the wall into the depths.
Two were seriously injured, and one — a lady — died. The
driver — a man who had handled the reins for many years —
was so hurt that he was hors de combat for months, and the
guard, who fell beneath the coach, was crushed severely.
This catastrophe raised quite a commotion both in Lynton
and Ilfracombe, and timid people hesitated long before
trusting themselves upon the coaches. The excitement,
however, though natural enough, was greater than the
occasion demanded — accidents must happen sometimes,
and why should coaches be exempt?
And the popularity of these coaches is, after all, the best
evidence of the rarity of an accident. Thousands are
carried by them every year, and the Lynton disaster has
now little or no effect upon the public mind. Every day
during the summer and autumn two or three start from
Ilfracombe, Lynton, or Minehead, and the difficulty is not
on the part of the proprietors to fill the seats, but on the
part of the tourists to get them.
But we are at the top of Countisbury Hill. Just below
the village, on the neck of land at the eastern end of the
Torrs, are the remains of a substantial earthwork, usually
called " Roman," owing perhaps to the shape being
rectangular, and to the fact that Roman coins have been
found in the vicinity. The rampart overlooking Chiselton
Countisbury Camp. — Lyn Gorge. 27
Combe, a green hollow sloping down to the Lyn, is some
thirty-five feet in height. On the other sides the ridge falls
away so sharply that little or no bank was needed, and
what may have been there has now completely weathered
away. The western end is protected by the rocky summits
of the Torrs.
Still, notwithstanding the imprimatur of the Bishop of
Cloyne and other antiquaries, there are, or were, some who
will have none of the "camp" theory at all. Of these was
old Mr. Baker, who kept the Castle Hotel for so many
years. He always declared that the so-called camp was
only the remains of a " drift " which he remembered being
cut through the hill by certain people who were examining
the ground for iron, and this " drift " was continued beyond
the " camp " and down the seaward face of the hill nearly
to the road — where it may still be seen. It is possible,
however, that the camp was there before the drift, and that
the line of the latter followed the eastern end. Still, the
matter must be left in doubt.
From this bank you may almost throw a stone into the
river on one side and into the sea — seven hundred and fifty
feet below — -on the other. You look into the grandest part
of the valley. From Chiselton Combe, indeed from far
above, the gorge of the Lyn right down to the harbour
mouth is a scene of romantic beauty. The greater part is
•densely wooded, yet high above the tree tops, grey crags
break forth from the " cleeves," mantled in ivy, and clothed
about their feet with thicket. The rush of the Lyn swirling,
round mossy boulders fills the air — it is, indeed, the only
sound audible except the breeze stirring in the gorse
brake, or the murmur of the sea, scarcely to be heard save
when a stiff nor'-wester drives the waves across the bay
against the boulders beneath the Foreland.
The steepest part of the road passes through a copse
which entirely conceals Lynmouth until we are close upon
28 Lynmouth.
it. A sharp bend at the very foot, and the Lyndale Hotel
comes suddenly into view and the bridge that spans the
clear flood of the river. On this bridge everyone must
loiter, for from it the gorge is seen to great advantage, not-
withstanding the presence in the foreground of sundry not
very picturesque cottages. By the way, were I the owner
of the Lyn banks, I would, methinks, allow no house to be
put up that did not harmonise with the scenery. Hard,
angular buildings, unbroken by gable or projection, seem
hardly the thing in the loveliest glen in Devon. Something
in the style of a Swiss chalet, now, would surely be more
appropriate than these stern, straight walls and steely-
looking roofs of slate. Look how the slopes descend, scarred
with rock and scree, or half covered with oak and ash ! Is
it not like an Alpine pass ? And, if you walk a little way up
the valley, other vistas will open out, each lovelier than the
last — wood, and coppice, and rock — until in the distance,
far away against the sky line, the eye rests at last upon
some breezy croft high up on the borderland of Exmoor.
Overhead is the Lyn Cliff, beetling above another wooded
ravine down which the West Lyn pours its torrent into the
main river. The grounds are private, but may be explored
upon payment of the smallest of silver fees — a fee which no
one will grudge who ascends to the falls at the head, for
in less than half a mile the river descends five hundred feet,
its channel almost choked by boulders, and its banks a mass
of ferns. Bright patches of sky appear through the tree
tops ; here and there, as we climb far up the gorge, is
caught a glimpse of the sea framed in by masses of foliage.
Such is Glen Lyn.
Lynmouth consists of a single street, facing the river.
Every other house is a hotel or lodging-house, but the
general appearance of the place is not unpicturesque, and
some regard has evidently been had for the romantic
surroundings. At the bottom is the rough little harbour
The Cliff Railway. 29
overlooked by a square tower, the tints of which have
mellowed so rapidly under the hand of Time, that it might
be three hundred years old at least. As a matter of fact,
it dates but from the latter end of the last century. It was
the gift of a General Rawdon, a resident to whom this
village on the Lyn owes no small debt. It is a copy of a
tower on the Rhine.
Lynmouth was once a thriving fishing village — not
innocent, too, of smuggling. For some reason or other,
that most fickle of fish, the herring, chose to make the bay
its favourite resort. For ten years — from 1787 to 1797 —
they could almost be dipped out of the sea in baskets, and
were even used as manure. Then the shoals suddenly
departed, and, for a long time now, have never visited the
bay in anything approaching the former quantity. So
Lynmouth has to fish for other fry, and does it pretty
successfully. Every year does the shoal of visitors increase,
and, probably, they pay better than the herrings.
The twin towns — or villages — are connected by the
steepest passenger railway in the kingdom — perhaps in the
world. It runs straight up the hillside at a gradient of one
in one and a quarter. The motive power is hydraulic, the
water being contained in a tank beneath the cars, which are
connected by wire hawsers. The descending car raises
that ascending, and danger is reduced to a minimum by
automatic brakes. This Cliff Railway, as it is called, was
initiated by Mr. Newnes, the journalist, whose mansion we
noticed just now upon the hill top above. That it — the
railway, not the house — should add to the beauty of the
surroundings is of course impossible, but it must be admitted
that every care has been taken to make it as unobjectionable
as may be. It is in a deep cutting, and, except when seen
from the sea, is not much en evidence.
The shore is covered with round boulders, through which
a channel has been made for the few coasters that trade to
30 Lynton.
and from this most miniature of ports. As the nearest
railway station is eighteen miles away, a thriving trade is
done in coals and other heavy merchandise, which will, I
suppose, decrease in the not very far off day when Lynton
shall be united with the railway system. The advent of
that day we cannot hail with much enthusiasm. At present
Lynton and Lynmouth know little of the almost omnipresent
youth in blazer and flannels, but should the railway come,
the tripper will come, too, and the valley of the Lyn will be
hopelessly cockneyfied. There is no other spot like this
Lyn Valley in the West, and it would indeed be a pity if
what Gainsborough called " the most delightful place for a
landscape painter this country can boast " were overrun by
the irrepressible tourist.
Along the side of the declivity that falls to the West Lyn
the road winds upwards to Lynton. The town lies in and
on the sides of a bowl or hollow about four hundred feet
above the sea, with a moorland ridge of nearly equal height
rising at the back. It is so packed away, that until you are
right in the street you have no idea that there is a town at
all. From a distance the impression that a traveller gets of
Lynton is one of hotels and villas. There are plenty of
both, but there is a town as well. It is quite a small place,
however, with but one street of any pretensions, where are
the principal shops and most of the hotels aforesaid. Here,
too, is the church, a building of no particular interest, but
which has been well restored. Lynmouth, too, has its
church (the parson serving Countisbury as well), a neat
little Early English building, but severely modern.
The ridge on which stands the northern part of Lynton
commands a wide view of the country eastward, and the
prospect from the grounds of the hotels — those of the
Valley of Rocks Hotel in particular — is most beautiful. In
an ancient guide book is an amusing remark anent the
rivalry between these hotels. "At Lynton," says the
A BIT OF LYNTON.
Lynton. — Valley of Rocks. 31
writer, " telescopes are employed at the rival houses for the
prompt discovery of the approaching traveller. He had
better, therefore, determine beforehand on his inn, or he
will become a bone of contention to a triad of postboys,
who wait with additional horses at the bottom of the hill to
drag the carriage to its destination." But this was in the
old posting days, when people had to drive all the way from
Taunton, and when those levellers, the coaches, had not yet
begun to discharge their swarms at the foot of Lynton Hill.
Neither were there steamers then disembarking passengers
into the great heavy shore-boats nearly every day from June
to October. I fancy the hotels have enough to do now to
find room for the multitude, without indulging in the rivalry
which Murray found so rampant nearly half a century ago.
The favourite walk about Lynton (next, perhaps, to
Watersmeet, where the Combe Park water joins the Lyn
beneath the shade of woodland cliffs) is the Valley of
Rocks. There are two ways of approaching it — one
through the eastern mouth of the Lynton valley, the other
by means of the North Walk, which runs along a precipice
above the sea, and enters the famous valley between two of
the great piles of rock which look so much like the ruins of
ancient fortresses that Southey called the place " a city of
. the Anakim." And the walk is far the finer approach.
It commences below the big hotel, and, passing some
villas, soon reaches the cliffs. A hundred feet or more
overhead, the Chimney Rock starts boldly from the rocky
ridge that divides the valley from the sea. Beyond is
another tor, known by the fanciful name of Ragged Jack.
Below the path the cliff, or, rather, declivity, falls headlong to
the sea, breaking away towards the bottom in sheer precipice.
Presently, as the path curves inward, the majestic Castle
Rock makes its appearance. It is steep enough on the
side facing the land, but the seaward face sinks like a wall.
At this point the view is magnificent, and one does not
32 Valley of Rocks.
wonder that the bend beneath Ragged Jack should be a
favourite spot with both artist and photographer — though
perhaps I ought not to make a distinction, for verily the
gentlemen of the camera think themselves artists nowa-
days— ay, and call themselves such, too. However, let that
pass. In the foreground is the great rock, towering some
four hundred feet straight up from the sea. Beyond, the
headland of Duty Point, crowned by a picturesque though
modern prospect tower, stands forth against the tender
green of the oaks of Woodabay, while the view is closed
by the promontory of High Veer.
Beneath the Castle Rock the stony ridge opens suddenly
.and we enter the valley. Immediately opposite, on the
.slope of the down that falls with such mountainous sweep,
is the Devil's Cheesewring, a tall column of blocks and slabs
piled one upon the other, almost after the manner of the
Dartmoor Tors. Eastward and westward stretches the
valley. It is best described in the words of Southey, who
calls it — rather grandiloquently, we think — " one of the
greatest wonders in the West of England." " Imagine," he
.says, " a narrow vale between two ridges of hills somewhat
steep ; the southern hill turfed ; the vale which runs from
east to west, covered with huge stones and fragments of stone
among the fern that fills it ; the northern ridge completely-
bare, excoriated of all turf and all soil, the very bones and
.skeleton of the earth ; rock reclining upon rock, stone piled
upon stone, a huge, terrific mass. A palace of the pre-
Adamite kings, a city of the Anakim, must have appeared so
shapeless and yet so like the ruins of what had been shaped
after the waters of the flood subsided. I ascended with some
- toil the highest point ; two large stones inclining on each
other formed a rude portal on the summit. Here I sat down.
A little level platform, about two yards long, lay before me,
and then the eye immediately fell upon the sea, far, very
far, below. I never felt the sublimity of solitude before."
Castle Rock. — Valley of Rocks. — Druidism. 33
But the sublimity of solitude has been somewhat dis-
counted since Southey's day. A carriage road now runs
down the valley, and a path has been cut to the summit of
the Castle Rock. Excursionists picnic among the bracken
below, and the popping of corks and the lays of one
Albert Chevalier harmonise but ill with the wild grandeur
of the scene.
Some of these rocks have their legends. Ragged Jack,
for instance, is the petrified form of an unholy wight who
headed a party of Sunday merrymakers to the valley.
While they were dancing, the Devil suddenly appeared and
— with rather an inexplicable regard for the Sabbath — turned
them into stone. The Devil, too, lends his name to the
Cheesewring, for here he manufactures his cheeses. This
Cheesewring was once the uncanny abode of " Mother Mell-
drum," the wise woman of " Lorna Doone." Readers of
that romance will remember the visit paid to her by John
Ridd, who wished to know when he might again venture
into the Doone Valley to see his sweetheart.
It is generally supposed, by the way, that Melldrum is a
contraction of Mabel Durham, and, in a former work* I
have myself referred to the " wise woman " under that name.
But a correspondent has recently suggested that the name
is more likely to have been Mapledurham. " In West
Somerset," he writes, " I have met families of the name of
Mapledoram, pronounced by natives Maldrum, and I have
frequently wondered whether this is the old name of Maple-
durham now slightly altered." The matter is not perhaps
of any great consequence. Still to those people who are
interested in tracing changes in surnames the information
may be of interest.
Efforts have been made — chiefly by antiquaries of a past
day — to prove that the Valley of Rocks was a haunt of the
Druids. Polwhele, indeed, pronounces it the favourite
* " An Exploration of Exmoor."
D
34 Lee Abbey.
residence of this priesthood, and others even go so far as to
trace the Gorseddu in the lines of stone below the Cheese-
wring. Beyond a circle or two of stones, which look like the
remains of walls inclosing sheepfolds or some kindred
structure, I must confess that I see nothing of the " enig-
matical figures " supposed to relate to Druidism, and should
certainly be slow to connect these with the worship of the
most terrible hierarchy that Britain has ever seen. The
Valley of Rocks may have been
Old Druid's misty throne,
as some poet describes it, but in my humble opinion the
throne is very misty indeed.
There are caves at the base of the Castle Rock, said by
the Lynton folk to run a great distance, but in reality of
little importance. They may be got at by descending a
zigzag path into Ring Cliff Cove, a little bay between the
Rock and Duty Point, where there is a sandy beach, the
only decent bathing place this side of Sillery Sands.
From the wild Valley of Rocks we follow the road into a
park, on the one side sweeping up towards woods, on the
other rising to Duty Point. At the foot of the park is the
cove of Lee Bay, overlooked by Lee Abbey, a picturesque
mansion, a good deal younger than it looks, writh its
" modern antique " wall and tower. An older house — a
house of which no traces now remain — was the dwelling of
the De Whichehalses, a family driven from Holland by the
persecution of the Duke of Alva. Here, till towards the
close of the seventeenth century, they lived happily enough,
and, had the course of love run smooth, their descendants
might be living there still. But fate ruled otherwise.
Jennifred, only child of Sir Edward de Whichehalse, was
deserted by her lover, Lord Auberley, and, in despair,
threw herself over the cliffs of Duty Point. De Whichehalse
complained to the King, but James declined to interfere,
and the consequence was that, when Monmouth landed, the
De Whichehalse. — The Doones.
35
unhappy father threw in his lot with the usurper. It is said
that at Sedgemoor he met Auberley face to face, and poor
Jennifred was avenged.
The proscription of De Whichehalse followed as a matter
of course, and, soon after his return to Lee, a party was
sent to apprehend him. He got wind, however, of their
approach, and embarked with a few of his adherents for
Holland. But a storm overtook them, and all on board
perished.
This Sir Edward de Whichehalse must have been the
Baron de Whichehalse of " Lorna Doone " (though Mr.
Blackmore calls him Hugh}. The reader will remember
the amusing interview between the " Baron " and Reuben
Huckaback, when the latter applied for a warrant against
the Doones, and the skilful way in which the Baron got out
of the difficulty by explaining, much to poor Uncle Reuben's
wrath, that "the malfeasance (if any) was laid in Somerset,
but we, two humble servants of His Majesty, are in com-
mission of his peace for the county of Devon only, and
therefore could never deal with it."
While on this subject, I may mention that a writer has
lately arisen who makes a clean sweep of the Doones
altogether. In his " Annals of Exmoor," Mr Rawle says
that " in the course of considerable research, not only
among the national records relating to that part of the
country, but county and parochial archives as well, no
evidence whatever, either direct or indirect, has been found
to warrant the assumption for one moment, that any such
gang of outlaws and bandits, living by systematic blackmail
levied upon the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, ever
existed on Exmoor."
Records of the Doones there may be none, but of them
and their doings there are divers legends, and the former
vicar of an Exmoor parish tells me that his people
were fully persuaded of their existence, and referred to
D 2
36 The Dooms.
" them Dooneses " as people of whose presence on Exmoor
there was " no manner of doubt whatever." A writer in the
Western Antiquary* has taken the trouble to embody all
that he could discover in an excellent paper, which lovers
of " Lorna Doone" — and there are many — will, I am sure,
thank me for bringing to their notice. He says that the
first efforts to collect and preserve these legends were made
more than half a century since by the vicar of Oare and
certain friends who committed their information to writing.
The collectors stated that the traditions referred to by them
had been handed down to, and were preserved by, the old
inhabitants, but that they had derived the details mainly
from one Ursula Johnson, a reputed witch of great age,
who, as I have since been informed, could remember her
grandfather talking of the Doones as actual beings, and
living on Exmoor, when he was a boy.
According to tradition, then, the ruins in the Doone
Valley are those of eleven cottages erected about the middle
of the seventeenth century, and inhabited by the Doones,
a band of outlaws, who, for causes connected, in some way,
with the Civil War, had retired to the hills of Exmoor.f
As to their origin, all that can be said is that they were not
West Countrymen, and that they were regarded by the folk
about Exmoor as of good family.
They were an evil, lawless crew, subsisting entirely by
robbery. To " lift " a farm was the least of their crimes.
Arson and murder so often went hand in hand with felony,
that they became the terror of the countryside. The
following accounts of their doings were collected and
reduced to writing :
* Vol. iii., p. 221, " Blackmore's Lorna Doone," by J. R. Chanter.
t The ex-vicar above mentioned is of opinion that they were refugees
from Sedgemoor. If this be the case, both Mr Blackmore and " the
collectors of the legends " have antedated — though only a little — the time
of their arrival.
The Dooms.
37
On one occasion they robbed and murdered a man called
" The Squire," who lived in a lonely house on the Warren,
the site of which is still to be traced. On another they
attacked Yanworthy Farm, near Glenthorne, but here they
met with unexpected resistance. A plucky woman fired
upon them, and they retreated, the blood of the wounded
man staining the ground for some distance in the direction
of their haunt. An ancient duck gun, preserved at
Yanworthy, is to this day pointed out as the weapon with
which this doughty deed was done.
The third incident is so horrible that it is difficult of
belief. At twilight they surrounded a house at Exford. It
took but a few minutes to obtain possession, for a maid-
servant and baby were, at the moment, the only occupants.
The former concealed herself in a large oven, and, from her
hiding place saw the poor baby deliberately murdered, the
Doones with brutal jocularity telling it, that if anyone asked
who killed it, it might reply, " the Doones of Badgworthy."
This saying has ever since been kept alive as a couplet in
the district :
If anyone asks who killed thee,
Tell "un 'twas the Doones of Badgery.
This was the last straw. Flesh and blood could no
longer endure such barbarity. The country rose en masse,
the Doone stronghold was attacked, and the robbers and
murderers exterminated.
" Besides these legends/' says Mr. Chanter, " I am not
aware of any actual historic details or authority as to the
Doones — who they originally were, and whether disbanded
soldiers or not, or where they came from before they settled
in the valley, which in those days was far more retired and
difficult of access than at present.
" But," some reader will remark. " what has all this got to
do with the coasts of Devon ? " Not much, I must admit.
Indeed, I confess that I have seized this opportunity
38 The Doones.
for making the best case I can for the Doones. The fact
is, we West Country folk do not like to be told that our pet
outlaws had no existence, and are not at all grateful to Mr.
Rawle for what he has told us. We have not so much
romance, good or bad, that we can afford to lose a bit of it,
and the story of the Doones of Badgworthy is regarded by
the men of West Somerset and North Devon with quite as
much affection as the folk of Nottingham regard the story
of Robin Hood. And now back to Lee Bay.
CHAPTER IV.
MARTINHOE, TRENTISHOE, AND THE GREAT HANGMAN.
Lee Bay — The Smuggler and the Exciseman — Crock Meads — Woodabay —
Martinhoe — North Devon Cottages — Martinhoe Church — Bishop
Hannington — Hollow Combe — High Veer — Heddon's Mouth —
Hunters' Inn — Trentishoe — An Old Man Yarn — Holdstone Down —
Sherracombe — The Great Hangman — Miners' Caves.
LEE BAY, with the green slopes of the park at its head, its
oak-hung rocks and leafy amphitheatre, is one of the
loveliest coves in all Devon. But, like most other bays
along this iron-bound coast, there is little or no sand. The
floor is of rock, with just a strip of shingle round the
verge.
Above the bay sweeps the road, presently climbing
through the woods towards the moorland hamlet of
Martinhoe. It runs along the cliff slopes nearly all the
way, giving continual glimpses through interlacing foliage
of the green-tinted water below — for the Channel is getting
more transparent now, and the waves of the Atlantic begin
to mingle with those of the Severn Sea. At one point this
road approaches within a few yards of the precipice.
Here the sea has worn a chasm, a place known to the
"by-dwellers" as the Smuggler's Leap.
Many years ago, when dealings in contraband paid
better than such dealings do to-day, a smuggler rode fast
over these cliffs pursued by a king's officer. The exciseman
had the better nag of the two, and drew rapidly on his
quarry. As pursuer and pursued came abreast of the chasm
they rode neck and neck, and the latter swerved aside to
40 Crock Point.
avoid the officer's grasp. The movement was too much for
the horse, who, with a wild snort went over the brink.
But the smuggler did not fall alone. Feeling himself going,
he clutched wildly at his enemy, and they rolled into the
abyss together. It is said that when their bodies were
discovered by the seaweed gatherers " they were locked
together in a vice-like grip which had hurled them into
eternity."*
The western horn of Lee Bay is Crock Point. Here
the coast is low, sloping from the road to the sea. A little
beyond, towards Woodabay, the land below the road sinks
into a semicircular hollow or basin covered with trees.
This depression was caused by a landslip. About the end
of the last century the ground was worked for clay by
some Dutchmen, who shipped the clay to Holland.
Some time after, when the deposit was worked out, the
land was taken by a farmer named Bromham. For some
years all went well, but, one Sunday, news was brought to
the farmer, as he sat in Martinhoe Church, that his land was
sliding into the sea. The congregation turned out en masse,
and did their best to save the poor fellow's crops. But the
fall was so sudden that a great part was lost. An eye-
witness tells how " thousands of tons of earth and clay —
mostly the latter — were for weeks on the beach spread out
to low-water mark. The clay was all colours — red, brown,
yellow, and some a beautiful pure white. The clay lay
scattered about in lumps, some as big as ships, and some
smaller. The run took place almost all at once, and about
nine acres were displaced. The occurrence was attributed
to the penning up of the land springs in the old clay
working. Some timber mining props were seen after the
slip." The spot is known as Crock Meads, perhaps
a corruption of crack meads — the cracked or broken
meadows.
* " Ilfracombe Guide."
Woodabay. — Martinhoe. 41
A walk of half an hour from Crock Point brings us to
Woodabay. The bay itself is a mere recess in the cliff at
the base of a lofty semicircle of woodland. From the Glen
Hotel you look down from an immense height over a sea of
foliage covering the slopes almost to the water's edge.
Above the woods a stretch of moorland rises another three
hundred feet against the sky. Along the bald slope of the
•downs is cut the new road connecting Woodabay with the
outer world, passing the head of Heddon's Mouth, a wild
combe two or three miles to the westward. This road is
the work of a syndicate, who are, it is said, going to do
great things at Woodabay — towards the opening up (and
probably cockneyfying) of this shady retreat. When I
was last there an engineer was already busy taking
soundings for a landing stage. As there are only six
houses besides the two hotels — the lower, by the way, was
•once the Manor House of Martinhoe — the enterprise seems,
.as the Americans would say, a little " previous."
It is a sore temptation to linger in these woods. Cool
patches of shadow lie across the path, musical is the
voice of the leaves stirred by the sea breeze, still more
musical the song of the brook plunging down the glen to
the stony shore below. The downs above shimmer in the
glare of the sun, and Martinhoe Church is four hundred feet
nearer heaven than we are. Still we must onward. As a
poetic and punning tourist remarks in the visitors' book :
Whether it's wet,
Whether it's hot,
We have to weather it,
Whether or not —
"which — for a visitors' book — is rather good, if original.
There is no village at Martinhoe. A farm or two near
the little grey church and the parsonage make up some sort
of a hamlet, but of village there is none. You will not
often find the typical village of the poet and the novelist in
42 Martinhoe.
North Devon. There are no peaked gables and timbered
walls ; no diamond latticed casements ; no village green with
its spreading elm, beneath which the fathers of the hamlet
quaff " nut brown " ale and smoke " churchwardens " a yard
long. No ; in these wilds the village, when there is one,
has, as often as not, not even an inn, and the cottages are
battered-looking tenements with slate roofs that have been
patched and patched till, like the old Victory, there is little
of the original left. Such are the moorland villages — if
you want the picturesque cottage with roof of warm thatch
and bowers of roses and honeysuckle you must descend into
the vales inland. The moorland farmer, the moorland
labourer, has something more important than the training
of climbing plants over his whitewashed and rough stone
walls He has to keep a roof over the head of the
" missus " and children, and exercise all his ingenuity to
hold at bay the moorland gale, and deny admittance to the
moorland rain.
Small as Martinhoe is, it has a pretty church. The
architecture is Early English, with nave, chancel, and north
aisle divided from the nave by an arcade of round columns.
The white stone font is modern and well sculptured with
foliage ; the basin stands upon pillars of coloured marble.
In the north aisle we notice a tablet to Margaret,
daughter of Hugh Whichehalse of Lynton, wife of Richard
Blackmore of Martinhoe. The date is 1683, so possibly
this Hugh was the magistrate before whom " Uncle
Rueben " demanded justice against the Doones.* If this
be the case, it looks as if the story of poor Jennifred were
wrong in two particulars — first, in calling her father Edward*
and, secondly, in describing her as his only child. At the
opposite end of the aisle another tablet is curious for the
spelling. " Aisle " is rendered " Aley " — a corruption, it
would seem, for " Alley."
* Vide p. 35, ante.
Bishop Hannington. 43
Some of the epitaphs in the churchyard are quaintly
worded. One in particular reminds us of Shakspeare's
Cursed be he that moves my bones,
though couched in milder language. John Berry of Parra-
combe, who died in 1784, thus addresses the bystander :
In this wall'd grave my bones are lain
To have it so it was my mind
And not to be removed I pray
Till Christ's Resurrection Day.
Martinhoe once had for curate the martyred Bishop
Hannington. He first came there in 1869 to read with the
Rector, Mr Scriven, and on taking his degree was ordained
to the curacy. Those who have read Mr Dawson's
interesting history of his life and work will remember what
an impression the restless undergraduate made on the quiet
folk of Martinhoe, and what a favourite he became not only
with the " Rectory people," but with every cottager in the
parish.
Hannington was a keen observer, and some of his notes on
the manners and customs of this sea-board parish are most
amusing. He tells us in his Diary how the clerk at
Trentishoe, having lost his wife, allowed but a few days to
elapse before he borrowed a horse, and rode all over the
parish seeking for a successor. Arriving at the Rectory, he
proposed to both the servants, but was rejected. The
widower, however, was in no wise cast down ; he persevered
in his search for a helpmeet, and " at last found a lady bold
enough and willing to take this step."
He delighted in the superstitions then (and, for the matter
of that, still) prevalent in North Devon — the belief in the
evil eye, or " overlooking ; " the power of a seventh son to
touch for the King's Evil ; witchcraft, and so on. Once he
attempted a little faith healing on his own account. He
presented a sick woman with a bottle of coloured water,
having a leaden medal attached to the cork. Handing this
44 Bishop Hannington.
to the woman with great solemnity, he directed her when-
ever she took a dose to turn the bottle round three times,
taking particular care not to lose the medal, but to restore
it to him when she was well. Strange to say the woman —
and she had been an invalid for years — recovered. Great
is the power of faith !
In the intervals of study (I am speaking of the days
before his ordination), Hannington amused himself by
making a breakneck path to some caves beneath the cliff.
For awhile he managed to enlist the services of certain
parishioners — villagers would be a misnomer, for there is,
as I have said, no village at Martinhoe — but, one by one,
they left him, frightened at the dangerous character of the
work, and he and the rector's son were left to themselves.
Success ultimately crowned their efforts, and Hannington
" personally conducted " many visitors to the wild shore
beneath these Martinhoe cliffs. Two of the most distin-
guished were Lord Tenterden and Mr. Justice Pollock, who
" expressed the greatest astonishment at the engineering of
the path."
But in one of his cave explorations he nearly lost his
life. Having wriggled through a hole in the cliffs into a
cavern, he found himself unable to return. The tide was
rising fast, and all the efforts of his companions to extricate
him were in vain. " I said, in the best voice that I could
command, that I must say ' good-bye ;' but, if ever I passed
a dreadful moment, it was that one," he writes. Then it
suddenly occurred to the party without that he might be
dragged through naked. And so the future bishop hastily
divested himself of his garments, and " after a good scrap-
ing stood once more by their side."
But when he became curate of the little church of
Trentishoe such pranks were given up. His eccentricity
now was shown in his dress, which would have made the
hair of a Ritualist stand on end. He describes himself as
Bishop Hannington.
45
" clad in a pair 'of Bedford cord knee-breeches of a yellow
colour, continued below with yellow Sussex gaiters with
brass buttons. Below these a stout pair of nail boots, four
inches across the soles, and weighing fully four pounds.
My upper garment an all-round short jerkin of black cloth,
underneath which an ecclesiastical waistcoat, buttoning up
at the side." But, after all, it was a sensible dress, and, for
a man who made such journeys as fell to the lot of
Hannington, eminently more suitable than the long coat
and well-cut inexpressibles wherewith our town friend
loves to clothe his form ecclesiastical. " You've got fine
legs, I see," quoth Bishop Temple to him one day ; " mind
that you run about your parish." And he did.
On one occasion, when he had undertaken the duty at
Challacombe, he got lost in a fog. Finally, having enlisted
the services of a guide, he reached the church — of course
very late ; in fact, he found the congregation discussing
whether they had not better go home. He explained the
matter to the clerk in a whisper. And this is all the
sympathy he got : " Iss," quoth the clerk, not sotto voce,
but loud enough for all the congregation to hear, " we
reckoned you was lost ; but, now you be here, go and put on
your surples and be short, for us all wants to get back to
dinner." So he put a surplice over his draggled raiment
and gave it ' short."
And so James Hannington went on his way, kind-
hearted, genial soul, as free with his purse as with his
counsel, beloved by all. How often when struggling
through the malaria-laden air of Equatorial Africa, racked
with pain, must he have longed for the pure breezes of his
moorland parish !
The new road from Martinhoe to the Hunters' Inn at
Heddon's Mouth is not yet pleasant walking, and the cliff
path that runs parallel with it, though at an elevation con-
siderably lower, is far preferable. We will find our way
46 Hollow Combe. — High Veer.
then across the rough fields, and drop down the great slopes
to the grassy track that follows the edge of the cliff midway
between the sky line and the sea. Once clear of the woods,
the slopes are bare — the great downs soaring upwards to
the fleeting clouds and sinking to the water as bald as an
Exmoor steppe. Ere long we reach a rocky amphitheatre —
a sudden recess or chine in the hills. Here, between
beetling crags, half covered with moss and climbing plant,
a waterfall tumbles to the path, and thence four hundred
feet to the sea. It is of no great volume — none of these
short-lived brooks can have much water — but the chasm is
deep, the rocks rugged and lofty, and the effect, especially
in the gloaming, as I first saw it, very grand and weird. A
friend who accompanied me, and who knows the chasms of
Yorkshire, compared it to Yoredale. This rift in the hills is
known as Hollow Combe.
Sweeping out once more on to the face of the cliffs, the
path winds onwards, now over grass, now across screes — a
dangerous walk at night, for, once lose your balance, and
you fall, or, rather, roll, many hundred feet, and then —
annihilation. At one point we pass close to the brink, and
look right down on the sea. There are many caves at the
foot of these cliffs, and some are accessible by the zigzag
path cut by Bishop Hannington between Hollow Brook
Combe and Heddon's Mouth. But this path does not look
tempting, and I cannot say that I should like to try such a
descent.
And now a bold, rough ridge of rocks cuts the western
sky line, sinking at a sharp angle to the sea-r-High Veer.
The path is hewn through the upper end, and, as we pass
through, almost without warning opens out the valley of
Heddon's Mouth, thought, by more than one, to be the
finest of the combes of North Devon. We look down
upon the trout stream flashing seaward towards the bar
of shingle which the sea has piled across its mouth, and
Heddon's Mouth. 47
through which it must filter, save when a storm on the
moors sends down a flood, when, for a brief space, the
barrier gives way. An abandoned limekiln perched on the
rocky bank overlooks the struggle between stream and sea,
and, worn by age and the weather to picturesqueness, is
like some old castle guarding the pass inland.
The valley is shut in by lofty hills. On the western side
the stone-strewn slopes give to the scene an air of grand
desolation. In the glare of mid-day the effect is not
so imposing, but it is difficult to do justice to it at
sunset. With the light at their back, the hills turn a deep
blue purple, while the screes become a pinkish grey, and
over all spreads a pale mist, so transparent as scarce to be
mist at all. Up from the depths below come glints of light
where, here and there, the Heddon curls back against a
boulder, and the air is full of his voice, rising to this height
in soft undertone.
But, even at mid-day, the glen is beautiful. And look at
the colouring — that burning bush of gorse bursting forth
from the arid stretch of stone — there is yellow, and pink,
and grey. A few months distant, and the clump of heather
on the edge of that fern brake will be in full bloom, and the
bracken itself changing its tints beneath the breath of
autumn — then will there be purple and gold. And every-
where in and out among the rocks are there bright green
patches of moss and blades of grass.
But this mountain glen — for such it truly is — is not the
only grand feature. Looking westward from High Veer the
coast line is magnificent. For several miles what a range
of downs sinks into the sea ! Further away beyond
Combe Martin Bay, hidden by the slope of the Little
Hangman, are the broken crags of Watermouth, with its
rock-bound coves, and the reefs of Rillage, near Ilfracombe.
On the sky line a pale grey wall rises out of the sea, the
Herculea of ancient writers — Lundy Island.
48 Trentishoe.
And now the path passes downwards almost to the bank
of the river and through a wood to the Hunters' Inn, a
picturesque thatched hostelry at the foot of wooded heights,
in the fork where the main stream is joined by a brook
coming down another deep valley from the cultivated
country at the back of Trentishoe. Both streams are full
of trout, so the Hunters' Inn is a favourite headquarters for
fishermen. It is also much affected by " reading men," and
the young man from Oxford may often be seen sunning
himself on the seat in front, engaged in the perusal of some
work which does not look a bit classical. But then they
bind books oddly nowadays, and perhaps a yellow cover
makes Plato or Thucydides more attractive, while, as
everyone knows, it does not follow that because a book is
in three volumes and has the purple label of Smith it is
not sternly scholastic.
A road of true West Country steepness and stoniness
climbs the western combe to Trentishoe Church and
what there is of a hamlet — a farm and a cottage or two.
The church, although on such high ground, is well sheltered
by still higher land behind, as well as by a grove of ash
trees which rise above the low tower. It is a tiny building
with an Early English east window of three lights. Here,
as at Martinhoe, the churchyard affords examples of
primitive epitaphs, one of which, commencing
My lovely little Tommy,
Thou was taken very soon,
has " angles " for " angels," and " nown " for " known."
But in spite of bad spelling — or perhaps because of it —
.people seem to live long at Trentishoe. On one gravestone
we find that three people, all bearing the ancient and time-
honoured patronymic of Jones, lived to be 89, 92, and 103
respectively. There is no doubt that people do live long
in these peaceful out-of-the-way spots. A tourist once met
an old man sobbing bitterly. " Why do you cry, my man ? "
Holdstone Down. — Sherracombe. 49
he asked. " Feyther hev a been beating me," blubbered
•the old fellow. " Father been beating you ? " echoed the
astonished wayfarer. " What on earth for ? " " For throwing
stones at gran'feyther," whined the veteran.
Although Trentishoe is high, we have not yet reached
the top of the hill, nor is the sea yet visible. We must
climb another two hundred feet before it again comes in
sight. But as the road winds upward, an extensive view
opens out, not only of the Channel on our right, but of the
country at our back — over down and field and fallow to the
hills of Exmoor. Ahead rises a dark tract of heather, the
barren height of Holdstone Down, the highest land between
Exmoor and the western sea. When we reach the shallow
depression that separates it from Trentishoe Common, we
leave the road and once more betake ourselves to the coast.
Holdstone Down is about eleven hundred feet above the
sea. One or two ruinous barrows mark the summit. There
are tumuli, too, on Trentishoe Down. No wonder that the
mighty ones of the past chose these vast seaward hills
looking towards the setting sun as a last resting-place !
Here, long after the valleys were in shadow, would the
beams of light touch the bare mounds with golden shafts.
They had some romance, these Celtic savages, after all.
From these ancient graves the eye rests upon surround-
ings of grim desolation. Not a blade of grass has climbed
thus far ; heather is the only plant that holds its own, and
even that indifferently, for it is blasted and scrubby, and
does not even conceal the bleached stones that strew the
surface in all directions. The view is, of course, very wide,
though blocked, a little to the westward, by the great mass
of the Hangman, a rival hill of nearly equal elevation.
The Hangman is separated from Holdstone Down by the
deep ravine of Sherracombe. Those who stick as close as
possible to the coast will find the descent into this glen a
very " gliddery " affair indeed, not to speak of the terrific
E
50 Sherracombe.
climb up the mountain wall opposite. The man with
" bellows to mend " had better keep round the head, for,
from past experience, I can assure him that a climb of a
thousand feet over slippery grass, especially with the sun on
your back, is as good a foretaste of the treadmill as any-
thing I know. And at Holdstone Farm, the only house
hereabouts, there is refreshment — humble, indeed, but of a
sort that few will decline after the hot tramp from Woodabay.
Indeed, talking of food, those who would fare delicately had
better not come to North Devon. Between Heddon's
Mouth and Combe Martin there is no inn whatever, and,
though provision of some sort may be had at most of the
farms, these are few and far between, and bread and cream
is the staple " meat " and milk the staple drink. But to
return. There is no doubt that those who go round the
head of Sherracombe do not see the best of its scenery.
For the glen, as it falls seaward, is wild and dark, and, like
Heddon's Mouth, shut in by lofty steeps of moorland. An
impetuous stream rushes down the bottom, not to meet
the sea almost upon its own level, as does the Heddon —
for the valley has not yet been worn down deep enough —
but flinging itself over the cliff in a cascade seventy feet
high.
Overhead, dark against the sky, towers the Great
Hangman the loftiest seaward hill in the West of England.
The climb to the summit, say, from the point where
Sherracombe opens on to the sea, is nearly a thousand
feet, for the Great Hangman is 1044 feet high. So it is
mountaineering now with a vengeance. I have done some
of the worst of the Lake mountains, I have done Ben Nevis,
but I know nothing, except perhaps the screes of Rosset
Ghyll, to equal the tremendous climb up the slippery slopes
of the Great Hangman. The gradient is about one in two,
and you will find it necessary to pause very frequently
under colour of admiring the view over the ravine below.
The Great Hangman. 51
About three hundred feet from the summit an old mine
track leads outwards and along the face past the chasm
inside Blackstone Point to some adits tunnelled in the
days when these hills were worked for silver, lead, iron, and
copper. The first opening is a mere pit, but the second
discloses the entrance to two passages or tunnels. The first,
a steep and loose descent underground, dives into a short
passage, which, turning sharp to the right, opens suddenly
on the face of a precipice some seven hundred feet high. In
the roof is a round hole which lets down a little light. The
mineral was doubtless hauled up the shaft, the refuse being
tipped into the sea below. The tunnel to the left passes
into the hill for a distance of one hundred and fifty feet.
Beneath the track is an overgrown path running obliquely
nearly to the edge of the cliff, where we come upon
another tunnel, striking for about ninety feet in a direct
line into the hill, and then branching to the left. Its
greatest length, from the window-like opening in the cliff
to the end, is one hundred and ten paces, or, say, three
hundred and thirty feet. None of these passages are more
than about three feet wide and about seven feet high.
Half a mile beyond — to the westward — a zigzag path
descends a sloping part of the cliff to the beach. It is now
used by people to collect driftwood and laver from the
rocks. Laver, by the way, is a seaweed which is boiled and
eaten very much in the same way as spinach, which in
appearance it somewhat resembles. But in the old mining
days this path had other uses, for about forty feet above the
beach are two more caves. They have long been abandoned,
and could never, one would think, have been very productive,
for no cart could by any possibility have ascended the
face of the cliff, and the mineral must have been carried up
in baskets. A little further west a path, cut in the cliff,
leads to another adit which has been filled up (apparently by
a fall from the roof) just within the entrance.
E 2
52 The Great Hangman.
This brow of the Hangman down to where the cliff sinks
sheer is so steep that none but the surest-footed should
attempt to scale it, far less descend direct from the summit
to the adits. The slopes are covered thick with whortle-
berry bushes, the foliage of which in springtime is of a
tender green dashed with pink, so that the Hangman, with
its flanks of red and grey and brown rocks, and its verdant
slopes, is a sight gracious as well as grand, and, when
autumn comes, the summit will be crowned with a purple cap of
heather. But, from the sea, one hardly notices the summit, so
impressive is the great cliff scarped down to dark Blackstone
Beach. On this mighty hill the clouds of Exmoor pause in
their flight seaward ; here strike the last rays of the sun as
he sinks in the waves beyond the pale blue wall of Lundy.
And here, too, for awhile, is the sea fog held in check, for,
except Sherracombe, there are yet no valleys that it may
choke with its dank breath, ere climbing, climbing, it
reaches the summit. A fearful place this iron-bound coast,
for no sandy shore is there to receive the wandering vessel
lost in the mist. Happy the craft that grounds, before
touching the cliffs, on some spot where there are no rocks.
And one actually did come ashore, not many years since,
under these very precipices. The fog rolled up from the
Atlantic in dense masses, but fortunately the sea was calm.
Had it been otherwise, little but a miracle could have saved
the lives of the crew. Not a headland could be seen.
Slowly the steamer forged ahead, feeling her way, as it
were, through the grey mass. Suddenly the fog thickened.
" A cloud," said the captain. But a voice rang from the
invisible bows, " Land ahead ! " and the steamer struck.
The cloud was the Great Hangman. Fortunately the
vessel had grounded on a patch of gravel, the only safe
spot, as I was told, for miles. A few hours' waiting for the
flowing tide, and she was afloat again. But what if the sea
had risen ?
Little Hangman. 53
The strange name of the hill is due, say the inhabitants
of Combe Martin, to a still more strange accident. A sheep
stealer passing over the hill, with his prey slung round his
shoulders, paused to rest on a rock, when the sheep, in its
struggles, tightened the cord, which, slipping round the
man's neck, strangled him. The etymologist, however,
says that Hangman is simply a corruption df the Celtic An
maen, the stone, and treats the legend with scorn.
Standing by the cairn of stones placed on the very top,
we look round on the widest view in North Devon. East
and south-east Exmoor heaves in long swells. Over the
cliffs is seen the summit of the Foreland. Nearer is High
Veer, the beautiful sweep of the Trentishoe Cliffs, and the
dark mass of Holdstone Down. Southwards the country
undulates away to Dartmoor, which on a clear day is
distinctly visible. In a westerly direction the coast may be
traced to the Torrs, beneath which we catch a glimpse of
Ilfracombe — beyond, on the horizon, lies Lundy. In the
immediate foreground a hill rises from the sea into a conical
summit. This is the Little Hangman to which we now
descend over a desolate heath.
CHAPTER V.
COMBE MARTIN.
The Little Hangman — Yes Tor — Challacombe Farm — The Mines of Combe
Martin — Wild Pear Beach — Combe Martin — Combe Martin Church —
The Last of the Martins — Thomas Harding — A Quaint Festival.
THE wind blows fresh in our faces as we cross the dip
between the Great Hangman and his lesser brother,
whistling along the rough fences of turf and stone that
divide the moorland from the fields that climb to the very
brow of the hills.
Above the hollow the cone rises to a height of perhaps a
hundred feet. Seaward, however, it falls seven hundred
and sixteen in a slope that is so steep that I have never
ventured down it, nor, so far as I am aware, has anyone
else. Indeed, there is no object in thus tempting fate, for
it is impossible to get at the water, the base of the hill being
sheer precipice as straight as a wall.
This peaked hill is just the place for a " cliff castle," and
there are indications near the summit that lead one to
suppose that some sort of a fortification actually did crown
the height. But the earthwork is now so low and weather-
worn that little can be made of it. At one time, however,
it must have been nearly impregnable.
I had imagined that there was but one Yes Tor in the
world, and that in this county of Devon. But below us, to
the right, is another Yes Tor, a sharp buttress of cliff
sheltering the little cove on the eastern side of the hill.
Why it is called Yes Tor I do not know. It is certainly as
Challacombe.
55
unlike its Dartmoor namesake as possible, and boasts no
more prominence than many another spot along this lofty
line of precipice. The name of the Dartmoor mountain is
supposed, and with good reason, to be a contraction of
Highest Tor, but it hardly seems probable that such was
the original name of the cliff beneath. However, there it
is, and let those who delight in tracing the origin of place
names fight out the question, if they list. There seems at
one time to have been a path down to the cove, and a very
precarious descent it must have been ; but landslips have
played havoc with it, and nothing but a goat, and that an
active one, could reach the shore now. The name of the
Dartmoor monarch, by the way, is the subject of a joke.
" What is higher than Yes Tor ? " a man once asked me.
" Why, No Tor," and he laughed triumphantly. He looked
rather sad, however, when I gently reminded him that a cruel
Ordnance survey had recently given a pre-eminence of nine
feet or thereabouts to the neighbouring boss of High Willhays.
The lofty line of downs extending from Sherracombe to
the entrance of the bay below — of which the Little Hangman
forms the easternmost horn — shelters from northern blasts
the deep green valley of Combe Martin. From the summit
of the Little Hangman nearly its whole extent may be
plainly seen — the long, straggling village, the lofty church
tower, the rectory up the western hillside buried among
trees. The descent is, of course, rapid, whether we take
a footpath through the fields and down through the market
gardens below, or follow the lane past West Challacombe
Farm.
This farm is interesting. It is an ancient house, which,
though now a homestead, has so many traces of bygone
greatness, that it is evident that it was once of much
higher estate. Look at the deep porch, pierced with
loopholes for musketry, that must be as old as the days of
Queen Bess at any rate ! And look at the weathered
56 Challacombe.
escutcheon of six quarterings in the gable overhead. It bears
the arms of more than one family of note. Round it runs a
motto, but, beyond one word which appears to be " Prouz"
(the name, by the way, of a race that once held Gedleigh
Castle on the borders of Dartmoor), it is too worn to be
legible. The inner arch, opening into the hall, dates, it
would seem, from the sixteenth century, and the dark oaken
door is ornamented with carvings in high relief, representing
a male and a female figure, on their heads queer coronets
full of fruit and flowers. These carvings are evidently of
later date than the door, to which they have been attached,
and look like specimens of the debased art of the next
century. The back of the door is strengthened with cross-
pieces, and the sockets for the great wooden bar still remain
in the walls on either side.
The hall, which was small, is now so cut up into living
rooms, that it is difficult to make out its real proportions.
But, from a passage upstairs, we can see an oak roof. This
roof is open, the divisions between the supports being filled
with roughly carved arches lying flat against the tiles. The
length was, apparently, about forty feet, the breadth sixteen.
The history of this old place is quite unknown, and about
it the local records are altogether silent. But it has been
suggested that it may have been the house of the Warden
or Governor of the Mines, which were once of considerable
importance, and were worked at intervals from the time of
Edward the First to the present century — indeed, tin mining
appears to have been carried on here much earlier, though,
as Westcott says, " of the first finding and working thereof
there are no certain records remaining." The semi-fortified
appearance of the surroundings certainly gives some colour
to the idea that West Challacombe was no ordinary house.
What is now the farmyard — probably the old courtyard —
is surrounded by lofty walls, and the pillars of masonry, on
which we may presume the outer gates were hung, at the
Combe Martin Mines. 57
top of the approach from Combe Martin, are very massive.
But the house itself is now a weather-beaten hill farm, and
the stranger might pass within gunshot of its walls and
notice little or nothing to show its former greatness.
These mines of Combe Martin — particularly those pro-
ducing silver lead — were, as I have said, of no little
importance. The first notice we have of them is in the
thirteenth century, when King Edward the First brought
360 men* from the Peak District of Derbyshire to work
them. In those days a man's surname was often deter-
mined by the place of his abode, and Jack o' the Peak and
Dick o' the Peak have left their mark at Combe Martin.
Families bearing the name of Peak still live in the district.
In the twenty-second year of King Edward, one William
Wymondham accounted for 270 pounds weight of silver for
Eleanor, Duchess of Barr, the King's daughter. In the
following year 522 pounds were accounted for, and two
years later no less than 704 pounds were delivered in
London. In a letter to Dr. Cruwys, of Cruwys Morchard,
Dibdin, who travelled through North Devon about a hundred
years ago, writes : " In the years 1293, 1294, and 1295
were extracted, whether from a mine or different mines, no
less than fifteen hundred ^weight^ of silver, and I am con-
fidently told that the fact maybe relied on." In the twenty-
fifth year of the same reign, 260 more miners were brought
from the Peak and from Wales, and, according to Camden,
Combe Martin silver helped to pay the cost of the French
wars in the reigns of Edward the Third and Henry the Fifth.
They are heard of again in the reign of Queen Elizabeth,
who is said to have imported men from the Hartz Mountains.
The new lode which led to all this activity was discovered
by Adrian Gilbert, and afterwards worked by Sir Bevis
Bulmer, who presented the Queen with a handsome silver
cup, weighing, it is said, 137 ounces. This cup, which the
* The Lysons say 337 men. f Probably a mistake for pounds.
58 Combe Martin Mines.
Queen afterwards presented to William Bourchier, Earl of
Bath, then lord of the manor, bore the following inscription :
In Martin's Combe long lay I hid,
Obscure, depress'd with grossest soyl,
Debased much with mixed lead
Till Bulmer came, whose skill and toyl
Refined me so pure and clean,
As rycher nowhere else is seen,
And adding yet a further grace,
By fashion he did enable
Me worthy for to take a place —
To serve at any prince's table ;
Combe Martin gave the ore alone,
Bulmer the fining and fashion.
. jNostrse Redemptionis 1593
< Reginae Virginis 35.
Vero Nobilissimo Willhelmo, Comiti Bathon., Locum-tenenti Devonian et
Exon.
Nor was this the only cup made at this time from Combe
Martin silver. Another was given to the Lord Mayor of
London — oddly enough his name was Martin, and possibly
he was descended from the ancient lords of the manor,
the Martins, Barons of Barnstaple. This cup is still used
at the Mansion House banquets. The inscription bears
some resemblance to that upon the other.
When water-workes in Broken-Wharff
At first erected were
And Beavis Bulmer by his art
The waters 'gan to rear ;
Dispersed I in earth did lye,
Since alle beginning olde,
In place called Coombe, where Martin long
Had hid me in his mold.
I did no service on the earth ;
Nor no man sate me free,
Till Bulmer by his skill and change
Did frame me this to be.
» ( Nostrae Redemptionis 1593
(. Reginae Virginis 35.
Ricardo Martino, Militi, iterum Majori sive vice secunda, civitatis, London.*
* Prince's " Worthies of Devon," edition 1810.
Combe Martin Mines. 59
" The allusion to ' Water-workes in Broken Wharff/
writes the author of the chapter on Combe Martin in a local
guide book,* evidently has reference to those erected for
supplying London with water in 1582. They were the
invention of one Peter Morris, described in old archives as
' a Dutchman, but a free denizen/ and were set in motion
by the action of the tide flowing through the first arch of
London Bridge. As Sir Beavis Bulmer was an engineer of
considerable ability, it is possible that his connection with
the waterworks mentioned in the lines quoted was in the
way of perfecting the Dutchman's invention."
I have seen a letter, now in the possession of Mr. Incledon
Webber, of Braunton, written by Charles the First to one
of Mr Webber's ancestors, in which mention is made of the
Combe Martin mines, which were then worked by Thomas
Bushell, of whom we shall hear more, by-and-by, as
Governor of Lundy Island. Historically, this is the last
that we hear of them. Still, they have been worked from
time to time with varying success, but want of capital has
prevented their proper development, and although mineral
has been raised, even within the last fifty years, the mines
are now altogether neglected. The ore was found generally
amidst a mixture of slate, sandstone, calciferous and
porphyritic rock. There were only two mines — I do not, of
course, include the adits and levels about the Hangman —
and the levels ran beneath the village itself, a drainage adit
passing under the hotel to the sea. A smelting furnace
was erected in 1845 at the valley mouth, where plates of
silver weighing 1200 and 1800 ounces have been produced.
But the yield varied greatly, ranging from 20 to 168 ounces
of metal per ton of the ore.
Still it seems possible that with proper management
something might be made out of mining at Combe Martin.
I understand that there is plenty of silver (though, as a rule,
* " Guide to Ilfracombe and North Devon." Edited by W. Walters.
60 Combe Martin Mines.
at a great depth), but that, through mismanagement and
ignorance, the best places have not always been selected
for working it. One of the last of the miners told me that
there were lodes beneath the bay, close inshore, and not
more than three or four feet from the surface, and that a
quantity still remains unworked at Knap Down. I am the
last to wish that this pleasant valley should be honeycombed
with mine shafts or made hideous with chimney stacks, but
one must not be selfish, and, although I must say that I
should deplore the change, the argument that urges the
greatest good of the greatest number will make itself
heard, and if Combe Martin does become a mining district
I shall try my best to " smile and look pleasant !"
Silver was not the only product of Combe Martin. There
were mines of iron ore and copper as well. The chimney
stack of the last to close, that on Knap Down, forms a
conspicuous object on the hill over against Challacombe
Farm, and may be seen for many miles. I believe that from
this particular mine silver lead was raised, but this mineral
was never so plentiful as iron, which was abundant, " over
nine thousand tons being shipped to South Wales between
1796 and 1802." Another industry which sprung out of the
mining expired with it. This was the cultivation of hemp, said
to have been introduced about the end of the sixteenth century
by some Spaniards who had come over to work the mines.*
From Challacombe we may descend into Combe Martin
by the lane, or take the longer but more interesting route
over the cliffs. We will choose the latter, and return to the
coast on the inner side of the Little Hangman.
What a lovely scene it is, this bay fringed by its walls of
broken cliff ! The sandy cove below — the first sand we
have seen since we left Lee Bay — is called Wild Pear
Beach. Here the cliffs are patched with underwood,
including some hawthorn bushes, which perhaps account
* " Archaeology of North Devon."
Combe Martin. , 61
for its name, for I remember that when I was a boy we
always called the bright red berries which succeed the May
blossom " birds' pears."
A zigzag path leads down to a ruinous limekiln and
cottage — most of the limekilns along this coast are now in
ruins. Compared to the quantity formerly used, lime is
little employed in agriculture nowadays, but evil-smelling
chemicals instead, and what is required for building
purposes is burnt in places less isolated — in Combe Martin
itself, for instance, where there are several kilns, and where
a good deal of the lime used for building at Ilfracombe
and Woolacombe is manufactured.
The cliffs running round the western end of Wild Pear
Beach, which are pierced with more mining levels, end in
Lester Point, within which is the cove that forms the head
of Combe Martin Bay. Here, or hereabouts, there is a
change in the geological formation. The sandstones locally
known as " Hangman grits " dip suddenly beneath the
slates, which, to use the words of Kingsley, are " fantastically
bent and broken by primeval earthquake." You may see the
change in the sharp slant of the rocks of the Little Hangman.
Crossing the fields inside Lester Point, we descend
through some of the gardens for which Combe Martin
is famous. It is the principal market garden of Ilfracombe,
and so early are these sunny plots that I have seen peas a
foot high at the end of March. The path drops to the
harbour or, rather, cove — for there is no quay — and the foot
of the long, straggling village street which stretches for a
good mile up the valley.
Combe Martin (by the way, it is usually written as one
word — Combmartin), like a good many other West Country
villages, was once a borough and market town. But both
its charter and its glory have been lost, and it ranks only
as a village. In itself it can hardly be called picturesque,
though it certainly does not deserve the name given it by
62 Combe Martin.
Kingsley — " the mile long manstye." A hundred years
ago, perhaps, when the Combe Martin man and " the
gintleman that pays the rint" lived in closer juxtaposition
than they do now, it may have deserved the title, but
Kingsley did not write a hundred years ago, and at the
time he expressed this ungracious opinion Combe Martin
had abolished the " lean-to " pigstyes which decorated most
of its cottages. On either hand the hills fall to the valley —
here smooth, green slopes, there wooded knolls ; here a
patch of moorland, there a copse. On the western side the
country begins to break into those crested undulations that
characterise the scenery all the way to Morte Point, and,
though the peaked summits are of no great altitude, they
are bold and picturesque. All along the bottom, watered
by a brisk trout stream, are gardens galore, varied with
orchards of apple, pear, plum, and cherry. In season, the
wayfarer is beset by vendors of fruit, but let him not think
that he will get it cheap, for nothing is cheap within six
miles of Ilfracombe, the all-devouring. Still, they do a
good trade, especially with passengers by the coaches, for
those who can afford to pay coach fares are not careful to
resist the temptation of purchasing one or more of the
dainty maunds that are held up so enticingly. These fruit
sellers mostly congregate about the King's Arms, an inn
situated near the centre of the village, the queerest looking
hostelry in the world. It is commonly known as the
" Pack of Cards." Each storey is smaller than the one
below, and the house certainly does look very much like
one of those unsubstantial structures which we all delighted
in raising when we were children.
But the principal feature of the valley is the tall tower of
the church, rising over the elms, not far above the King's
Head. It stands on a sunny slope on the bank of the
stream against a background of green hills. As seen from
the north this church is very striking, for the walls are
Combe Martin Church. 63
crowned with battlements, and there is a fine lofty porch,
while the red stone gives an air of richness, and contrasts
well with the ivy draping the walls. The tower, ninety-
nine feet high, is built in four stages, and tapers
considerably. At each angle of the battlements rise slender
crocketed pinnacles, surmounted by small crosses. At the
third stage the buttresses have niches, some of which are
empty, but others contain figures. One of the niches on
the south side has the effigies of some animal holding a
shield bearing three lions passant. These, forming as they
do part of the Royal arms, have led some to think that the
tower was built by King Edward the First. But the style of
architecture is later than his day, and I do not think the
tower can have been built earlier than the year 1350.* As
Edward the Third was also interested in the product of the
mines, it is possible that the escutcheon was placed there
at his expense, and the period of his reign agrees, I think,
with the date of the erection of the tower. On the western
side is a representation of the Trinity — God the Father
holding the Son crucified between His knees, while the
Holy Ghost, in the form of a dove, hovers over the
Saviour's breast. In another niche is St. Margaret slaying
the Dragon. Over the west window is a figure of Christ
holding a scroll sculptured with symbols of the Crucifixion.
Most of the figures are too weathered for their identity to
be determined ; but, in the second stage, at the side of a
window which has been partially destroyed to make room
for it, is a niche containing a mutilated figure, which, from
the vestments, is clearly that of a bishop. It is said to
represent the patron saint — St. Peter.
In shape the church is cruciform. It consists of nave,
chancel, north aisle with chapel, and another chapel on the
* Mr. Buckle gives the western arch an earlier date, and calls it Norman-
If so, this stage of the tower may be of earlier date. The arch strikes me
as being later rather than earlier, and of a decided Perpendicular.
64 Combe Martin Church.
south. The chancel is Early English, with, for the size of
the church, an unusually small east window of three lancets.
There are two other lancets in the south wall, and a narrow
priest's door. The north chapel, separated from the
chancel by an oak screen thrown across a very wide
Perpendicular arch, has some singular chestnut bench ends.
Four of these bench ends finish with statuettes. There is
a headless eagle, two other birds (so mutilated as to be
unrecognisable), a dragon, and the four claws of some
animal unknown.
Over the vestry door in the wall of this chapel, beneath
a canopy of alabaster and marble, is a half-length figure of
a lady, carved from a piece of white marble of the most
spotless purity. This represents Judith Hancock, wife of
William Hancock, some time sercher (searcher?) in the
port of London. This lady, whose face must have been
fair to look upon, died in 1637. The workmanship of the
monument is unusually good — not only the lady's features,
but the details of her dress, being wrought with the
greatest delicacy.
These Hancocks were once lords of the manor. They
came into possession in the reign of Henry the Eighth, when
Sir John Pollard gave it to his servant William Hancock.
One of the family — also named William — is commemorated
by a small brass, dated 1587, where he is described as
" Gulielmus Hancock, generosus."
Both chancel and chapel are divided from the rest of the
church by an oak screen of ten openings. This must have
been a very handsome specimen, but it has been treated so
badly that little carving is left, save the tracery filling the
openings. The panels are filled in with rather rudely
painted figures of saints — male and female. The cornice is
a hideous plaster affair, the work of the churchwardens in
1672, and " their initials, J. P., T. H., still record their satis-
faction in this astounding Vandalism."
Combe Martin Church. — Combe Martin. 65
There is the usual cradle or wagon roof, but the ribs are
good and well preserved. The capitals of the pillars are
carved with foliage. The octagonal font stands on a thick
central stem surrounded by four slender columns. It is
ornamented with Perpendicular tracery.
In the churchyard is an epitaph, which, in spite of its bad
grammar, few of us would, I think, object to have as our own :
A friend so true there were but few
And difficult to find,
A man more just and true to trust
There is but few behind.
What tribute could be more satisfactory ?
A couplet on a tombstone which has no name, but is set
at the foot of the grave belonging to the Ley family, to the
west of the tower, is said to have been the one which is the
subject of the oft-told tale of the irreverent wag. The
verse, as I suppose everyone knows, runs :
Marvel not you standers by
As you be now once was I
As I be now so must you be
Prepare for death and follow me
And this profane person scratched beneath :
To follow is not my intent
Until I know which way you went.
This tombstone, which is evidently older than the larger
one of the Leys, bears a device (which is seen, too, on
several others) representing a hand grasping a bill-hook
and cutting off a rose. Another stone records the death of
Thomas Lovering at the age of 103. According to the
sexton, this patriarch was reaping only two years before his
death. Fancy any labourer working in the fields at 101
nowadays !
Another man of this name was buried with the following :
Here lies the body of — who d'ye think?
Old John Lovering, he loved best drink,
When he was living he was always dry
And now he's dead, now let him lie.
F
66 The Last of the Martins.
The tombstone bearing this highly original effusion has,
very properly, been removed. So has another which, not
long since, stood at the head of a grave side by side with
that of the Peake family :
Here lies my body all incomplete
I should have lived longer if I'd had more meat,
I died all in that very year
That old John Peake was overseer.
This is hard enough — but imagine the deceased " pointing
his moral " by being laid next door to his enemy !
There is nothing of much interest in Combe Martin
village. A barn with a fine Jacobean entrance arch is all
that is left of the Manor House. It stands back from the
street on the right-hand side, a little above the turning
which leads to the church.
Speaking of the Manor House reminds me that I have
said nothing of the early lords — the people from whom
Combe Martin gets the second part of its name. The
combe is, of course, in pronunciation, if not in spelling, the
Celtic Cwm, a valley — parent of all the combes in the West.
But Martin comes from the Norman baron Martin de Tours,
the Conqueror's grantee. This family (though no longer
lords of the manor) still live in Devonshire, one of their
descendants being the present vicar of Ilfracombe. They
held considerable estates in the county, and were Barons of
Barnstaple and Darlington, near Totnes. The legend told
of the last of the Martins of Combe Martin is a sad
one. This Martin lived in a moated house near the
church. The moat was spanned by a drawbridge which
was drawn up at night. One day his son went hunting,
but the chase was a long one ; night fell, and he did not
return. Thinking that the young man had accepted the
hospitality of a fellow-huntsman, the father ordered the
drawbridge to be drawn up as usual. Late at night the son
returned, and not heeding, or not seeing, the position of the
drawbridge, plunged headlong into the water, where the
Harding. — Earl of Rone. 67
corpses of himself and his horse were found on the
following morning. Wild with grief and remorse at what he
considered the result of his own carelessness, the poor father
pulled down the house and left Combe Martin for ever.
Combe Martin has its " worthy." It is celebrated (or
notorious, as the case may be) for having been the birth-
place of that turncoat, Thomas Harding. Harding was
born early in the sixteenth century, and educated at
Barnstaple — -at the same school as Bishop Jewel, whom he
afterwards so bitterly opposed — at Winchester, and New
College, Oxford, where he ultimately became Professor of
Hebrew. On the death of Henry the Eighth he turned
Protestant, and was rewarded with the Archdeaconry of
Barnstaple. But his Protestantism was not proof against
the terrors of " Bloody " Mary, and he again reverted to
Romanism, becoming a prebend of Winchester, and
Treasurer of Salisbury Cathedral. On the accession of
Elizabeth he found it advisable to leave the kingdom, and
he died at Louvain in 1572. Harding's abilities were of a
high order, " and," says Prince, " if his steadfastness in
religion had been answerable to his eminent learning, he
would have proved a much greater ornament to our
country."
Until quite modern days Combe Martin was known for
the celebration of a curious pseudo-historical festival or
" revel," known as the " Hunting of the Earl of Rone."
Two hundred and fifty years ago the hills and valleys at the
back of the Hangman were far more inaccessible than they
are to-day, and became an asylum for refugees who had got
into trouble over the Irish Rebellion. One of these outlaws,
calling himself the Earl of Tyrone, was captured in a wood
near the village, and the Combe Martin folk, grateful for
the removal of so dangerous a character from their midst,
commemorated the .event in the following manner : A week
before Ascension Day the Earl of Rone, as he was called —
F 2
68 The Earl of Rone.
an extraordinary figure made out of a smock frock stuffed
with straw, a string of biscuits round his neck, and, for face,
a mask — was led through the village and neighbourhood in
company with a hobby-horse and a donkey adorned with
flowers. Everyone was expected to contribute a coin or
two to the " soldiers " who escorted this extraordinary trio,
and if anyone declined he was sprinkled with mud from a
broom carried by a " fool," or maltreated more or less by
the hobby horse. On Ascension Day the Earl was taken
to the wood where the real outlaw had been arrested and
concealed among the bushes. Then the " soldiers " were
supposed to discover him ; he was dragged forth, placed on
the donkey with his face to the tail, and conducted back to
the village. Now and then the " soldiers " fired a volley,
when the Earl would fall from his steed, the mob would
cheer, and the hobby-horse and fool utter dismal cries.
This sort of thing went on till evening, when the
affair wound up on the beach. If the actors in this
grotesque pageant had comported themselves with decency,
the " Hunting of the Earl of Rone " might, perhaps, still be
seen at Combe Martin, as the hobby-horse is at Minehead.
But the rowdiness and drunkenness inseparable from such
a function became unbearable. So the day came when the
Earl was hunted for the last time, and in 1837 the show
was suppressed.
But suppressed not altogether to the satisfaction of the
inhabitants. One old lady told me with what an awful joy
she would give her halfpenny to escape the jaws of the
" mapper," a terrific wooden affair worked by the hobby-
horse, and which laid hold of any non-paying delinquent.
She was really quite enthusiastic about this by-gone revel,
and I shall never forget the unction with which the old
creature finished her narration by exclaiming, in good old-
fashioned Devonshire, " My dear soul, I should like to have
'un again ! "
CHAPTER VI.
THROUGH BERRYNARBOR AND WATERMOUTH.
The "Castle" Earthwork — Sandy Way — Watermouth — Smallmouth
Caves — Berrynarbor — Bishop Jewel — Manor House — A Healthy
Place — " Dangerously Old " — Sloe Gin — Watermouth Harbour and
Castle — Widmouth Head— Rillage Point — Interesting Rocks — Hele —
Chambercombe — A Ghost Story.
" OUT of the world and into Combmartin."* So runs the
local saying. If the converse hold good, we get into the
world when we leave that village. And yet there is not
much sign of it for the next mile or two. Indeed, the coach
road, after winding up a long ascent, seems rather to have
left the world behind than to have entered it. With the
exception of Watermouth Castle, there is hardly a house
throughout the four miles that intervene between one of
the largest of Devonshire villages and one of the pleasantest
of Devonshire watering places — between Combe Martin and
the outskirts of Ilfracombe.
The pedestrian may cut off the longest bend of the ascent
by taking an old lane between it and the sea — a lane that
was once the highway, but which no horse that valued its
knees would care to descend nowadays. At the point
where this lane rejoins the road and right overhead rises a
steep knoll covered, except about the crown, with oak
sapling and underwood. On the summit are the remains of
an earthwork locally known as the Castle. The best way
to get at this " camp " is through a gate a little further up
* The local spelling. Vide p. 61.
yo The " Castle!'
the road, where it may be attacked in flank. Arrived on
the summit, it will be found that the earthwork is, as usual,
circular, and, therefore, in all probability of Celtic origin.
It is some three hundred feet in circumference, with a bank
about ten feet high on the outside, where it is protected by
a ditch, though the height measured from within does not
exceed four feet. To the east the hill is so precipitous that
neither bank nor ditch was necessary. The entrance is to
the south-west. Standing on the brow of this hill, we
again have a panorama of Combe Martin Bay overlooked by
the cone of the Little Hangman with its sloping ribs of
rocks and wave-worn caverns.
Below the Castle a footpath and lane lead to the village
of Berrynarbor, a pretty village a mile in from the sea.
By taking this path, however, we turn our back on the coast,
and this we cannot afford to do as the scenery is delicious.
The high road hugs the cliffs closely, sometimes touching
the very edge, and you look down through the bushes of
blackthorn and bramble into the blue depths below. But
the cliffs are no longer lofty. The high lands, so far as
the coast is concerned, came to an end with Combe
Martin Bay ; we have left the massive downs with their
faces of precipice, and from Combe Martin to Ilfracombe
the seaboard is broken and irregular, with the exception
of Hillsborough, seldom exceeding two hundred feet,
sometimes even not reaching half that height.
But there is a great charm about this irregularity.
Coves, and inlets, and fissures indent and scar the cliffs
every few yards. Here there is a little bay, there a deep
crevice, as though earthquake had been here and left its
mark in the rock. And in all places where there is foot-
hold does vegetation cling — vegetation of waving grass, of
ivy, of " old man's beard," while higher up near the summit
is wind-twisted sapling and thickets of briony and bramble
and thorn. And how rich the colours of these cliffs !
Sandy Way. 71
There is a slate of grey satin, a slate of dark blue. There
are crags with tints of brown and chrome and ochre. In
short, this piece of coast is a feast of colour that must
delight the eye of any artist, while at the same time he
must despair of ever reproducing such manifold hues.
One wild little cove is Sandy Way, or Sandy Bay, as it is
marked on the map. It lies immediately beneath the
Castle, and is reached by a rough cart track which winds
down a slope in part covered with thicket, in part with
grass, and in springtime starred with primroses. At the
bottom is a strip of gravelly beach with the usual foreshore
of rock, and the base of the cliff at the western end is
pierced with a small natural arch through which a man may
wriggle at low water. There is another arch at the back of
the cove. But this is an affair of masonry, erected to
bridge a chasm in the cliff in the line of the track by which
we just now descended. Once upon a time this track was
used by limeburners for the carriage of pebbles from the
shore, but, as I have said already, limestone now is
generally dug further inland, so Sandy Way is deserted, and
the sea has encroached on the track.
Another picturesque bay is Golden Cove, shut in between
steep horns of rock, and with a capital beach for a dip,
could you but get down to it. A little beyond, the road
makes a sudden bend inland, and we leave it to pass
through a wicket on to a path which keeps to the cliffs, passing
through part of the park belonging to Watermouth Castle,
the tower of which is presently seen rising above the trees.
From this path the view eastward of the Hangman Hills
and Trentishoe Cliffs is magnificent. But the view in front —
of the narrow rock-bound inlet of Watermouth, with its
trout stream, green park-like slopes, and trees — is equally
fine, if less grand. Away to the left opens out the pleasant
valley of Berrynarbor, and there is a vista of steep wooded
hills and pastures of liveliest green, until, far inland,
72 Smallmouth. — Berrynarbor.
against the sky line the valley is closed by the high land of
Berry Down.
At the foot of the slope the path skirts a narrow cove, or,
rather, inlet, where the cliffs are mere slopes of slate only a
few feet high. This is Smallmouth, and within a few yards
of it, just where the peninsula which embraces land-locked
Watermouth leaves the mainland, are two caves. Neither
can be explored without the payment of a small fee, the
approach being from the road close by, and, except at
high tide, neither is accessible by boat, for the seaward
entrances are guarded by rock and boulder. The western-
most, known as Briary Cave, is the more interesting. It is
entered through a narrow aperture, and is lit by a wide
shaft of light streaming down through an opening in the
roof festooned with briar. Passing beneath this, you look
through a dark arch of rock out to sea. The mouth is not
easy to reach, for the floor of the cave is covered with a
shallow pool left by the tide, which stretches from wall to
wall. The other cave is chiefly famous for the view of
Combe Martin Bay, the dark roof and sides making a most
effective frame for the delicately tinted downs and soft blue
cliffs to the eastward.
And now, reaching again the high road, we will turn up
the valley and pay a visit to Berrynarbor. The road follows
the windings of the trout stream — a stream fringed with
hazel and sparkling over many a tiny weir on its course
through the green meadows. On either hand the hills rise
wooded to the sky line, with here and there a lodge or
cottage perched about the fringe. Presently the tower of
Berrynarbor Church comes into view, standing on a slope
to the left, and, as we turn the corner, the village itself
appears climbing the hill beneath its shadow, and set among
gardens and orchards.
Past a snug little inn and some ancient cottages the road
winds upward to the church. In a few minutes we reach the
Berrynarbor Church. 73
lych-gate standing high above the road at the top of a flight of
steps. The church stands still higher, the graveyard sloping
to the road.
As at Combe Martin, the eye is at once attracted by the
fine proportions of the tower. It does not, however, taper
like that of Combe Martin, nor is it as lofty, the height
being but eighty feet. It looks, however, quite as high,
and has the same number of stages. The architecture
appears to be of the Decorated period, though the west
window, which for a country church is unusually fine, and
has four lights divided by a transom, is Perpendicular. In
the third stage are four empty niches with canopies of
delicate tracery, and the battlements are pierced by quatre-
foils. The pinnacles, however, are small and insignificant.
The church consists of nave, chancel, and south aisle. In
the north wall of the aisle is an early Norman arch opening
into a chapel, now used as a vestry. Across it stretches an
oak screen, given by Mrs. Bassett, of Watermouth Castle,
who also gave the tower screen and restored the roof,
tower, and belfry. The Norman arch is not the only
indication that this chapel is the oldest part of the church.
" One corner of the outside gable coping," says Mr. Raven-
shaw, " is worked into a sort of billet moulding, which
with the cross on the gable indicate alike early origin with
the arch." There is also a large Norman font.
The chancel is Early English, the nave and aisle
Perpendicular. The pillars are good, with foliated capitals,
and in the one furthest west there are niches. Close to the
pulpit there is a pretty modern brass of an angel holding a
scroll with an inscription to the memory of the last Rector,
the Rev. J. M. Hawker, Treasurer and Prebendary of
Exeter Cathedral, who died in 1884. Within the altar rails,
close to the piscina, is a tablet to the memory of Mary,
daughter of George Westcott, " Pastor of this church,"
who died in 1648. The play upon " Marigold " is quaint.
74 Berrynarbor Church.
This Mary-gold lo here doth shew
Marie worth gold lies neer below
Cut downe by death the fair'st gilt flowr
Flourish and fade doth in an howr
The MARYGOLD in sunshine spread
(When cloudie) clos'd doth bow the head
This orient plant retains the guise
With splendent SOL to set and rise
Eun soe this Virgin MARIE Rose
In life soon nipt in death fresh growes
With CHRIST her Lord shall rise againe
When shee shall shine more bright by farre
Than any twinckling radiant starre
For be assur'd that by death's dart
MARY enjoyes the better part.
Beneath this the name of the deceased (the Christian
name Latinised) is turned into an anagram thus :
MARIA WESTCOTT
MORS EVICTA TUTA
and, for colophon, there is a coloured marigold.
From the wording of the above one would have imagined
that the deceased was a young girl. The tablet, however,
shows that she had fulfilled the tale of the Psalmist. In
other words, Mary Westcott died at the age of seventy, and
can therefore scarcely be said to have been
In life soon nipt.
On the north wall of the chancel are monuments to the
families of Berry and Narbor, from which families the
parish is said to take its name. Westcote, however, says
that the old lord of the manor was Nerbert de Berry, which
afterwards became Berry de Nerbert.
A couplet on the tablet to John Bowden and Ann his
wife, who died in 1766 and 1779 respectively, contains a
conceit both quaint and pretty. This tablet is on the south
wall, and the lines run :
My loving husband he leading me ye way
to this dark bed of dust I came and lay
Down softly by him here securd from harm
We sweetly sleep as it were arm in arm.
Bishop Jewel. 75
In the vestry hangs a portrait of Bishop Jewel. This
celebrated divine was born at Bowden Farm, at the upper
end of the valley, in 1522. At the early age of thirteen
young Jewel was sent to Merton College, Oxford, and four
years later was elected a scholar of Corpus. One of the
friends of Peter Martyr, the Professor of Divinity, he gave
ear to the doctrines of the Reformers and became a Protestant.
He won great renown as a preacher; but on the accession of
Mary his religious opinions brought him into trouble, and he
was expelled his college. Hearing that Bonner was on his
trackjhefledtotheContinent, and took uphis abodewith Peter
Martyr. But he failedto elude the vigilance of the Inquisition,
and in a weak moment was persuaded to sign his name to
certain Popish doctrines. His remorse for this denial was so
great that he afterwards publicly recanted at Frankfort.
On the death of Mary he left his home at Zurich and
returned to England. The reward for his fidelity to
Protestantism was the Bishopric of Salisbury, and Elizabeth
further selected him as one of the sixteen Reformers to
dispute in her presence with the same number of Romanists
on certain points at issue between them. The Queen had
so high an opinion of his learning that she ordered a copy
of his " Apology for the Church of England " to be placed
in every church in the kingdom. This Apology became so
celebrated that it was translated into several languages and
" read and seriously considered at the Council of Trent."
Jewel was the author of many other works, all " exquisitely
learned," though none so famous as the Apology, which-
caused his name to be known all over Europe. It excited
the ire of his neighbour Harding, but Jewel's dignified
defence completely silenced his coarse diatribes. Except in
the matter of his signature to the Popish doctrines, Jewel's
conduct was above reproach, and even his enemies spoke
of his life as "angelical." He died at Monkton Farleigh
in 1571, and was buried in Salisbury Cathedral.
76 "Dangerously Old!"
Below the western end of the church is the old Manor
House, said to date from the days of Edward the Fourth. It
has now sunk to the condition of a small farm, and, except
the good stonework, the square-headed windows, and some
oak panelling within, conveys little impression of its
ancient greatness. At one time it appears to have boasted
a quadrangular courtyard, and divers carvings and
escutcheons decorated the walls. These, however, have
been removed to Watermouth Castle, though there still
remain over the windows the letters T. B. and F. B. — the
initials, perhaps, of some members of the Berry family,
who lived in the parish two hundred years ago. The ruins
of other parts of the building give the place rather a
melancholy look, and the surroundings of the church would
certainly gain by their removal. There is a village tradition
that treasure will be found beneath the walls.
Berrynarbor should be a healthy place. The late vicar,
one of the pleasantest contributors to the pages of the
" Transactions of the Devonshire Association," says that
when he first came there he asked whether there were any
sick to be visited, and was told, in a tone of surprise, " Oh,
no, sir ; nobody is ever ill in Berrynarbor. There is an old
man, to be sure, over ninety, who has taken lately to his
bed, but there bain't much the matter with him that I knows
of." " I thought to myself," writes Mr. Hawker, " of the
story of the Scotchman, who said to his doctor, ' Ye pu' a
vara lang face, Doctor ; d'ye think I'm dangerously ill ? '
' Na, na,' was the reply ; ' I don't think ye're dangerously
ill, but I think ye're dangerously old!"
There is a pleasant walk from Berrynarbor to Ilfracombe
besides that by the coach road. Up the hill on the other
side of the valley, past an outlying portion of the village,
a lane climbs steeply, and, passing over the ridge behind
Watermouth Castle, descends still more abruptly to the
hamlet of Hele. This lane is famous for its sloes, the
Sloe Gin. — Watermouth. 77
finest that I have ever seen — just the sort for that
delectable liqueur known as " sloe gin." By the way,
the reader may like to know how we Devon folk make
sloe gin. I present him (or her) with the recipe, 'into an
ordinary wine bottle put half a pound of sugar candy,
and upon this pour about half a bottle of gin. Then
drop in the sloes (puncturing each berry as you do so) until
the gin rises within an inch of the cork. The bottle should
be shaken daily for about a month, when the liquor may be
strained off, and rebottled, or left according to taste. In
my opinion the flavour is improved by leaving sloes and gin
together.
But we are not going to Ilfracombe by this hilly lane
to-day, and the time of sloes is not yet. In fact, the black-
thorn is only just breaking into bloom. Let us return to
the high road, which, sweeping round the hillside at the
head of the cove, brings us to Watermouth Castle.
Of Watermouth " harbour " first. Someone has said
that it is like a Scotch sea loch. The simile is a happy one,
and it may be added that there are few Scotch sea lochs
that are prettier. The low range of cliffs, nearly eaten
through at Smallmouth, have here given ingress to the sea,
forming a cove so perfectly land-locked, that when a storm
is thundering without, the water within is smooth enough
for a cockleshell. This natural breakwater is broken up
into peaks and knolls and undulations. In spring the
place is covered with primroses and wild hyacinth. Later,
the brake fern uncurls its velvety fronds, and the little
valleys of the peninsula are a mass of tender green. About
midway stands a round tower, once a pigeon house.
Beneath this, inside, on the very edge of the water, is a
walled inclosure which looks like a place for dipping
sheep — if they ever are dipped in salt water — but is really
a tank, or pond, constructed by some former Lucullus of
the Castle for the preservation of his oysters !
78 Watermouth.
On the landward side a strip of wood rises to the road.
But towards the west, protected by the bold bluff of
Widmouth Head, the land falls away a little, and there
comes a dip of grass land, sloping to a sandy bay — a mere
nook, it is true, but when the tide is up, and it generally is
at this end, the most delightful spot for a picnic.* At the
head of the " harbour " — as the cove is generally called —
the stream that waters the valley of Berrynarbor forsakes
the pastures, and, passing beneath a bridge, meanders over
the shingle to its death in the salt water.
Watermouth, natural harbour though it be, is not much used
as a haven. In the first place, it is private property ; in the
second, there is no population, and consequently no trade.
Thirdly, the entrance is very narrow, and crossed by a
swinging tide. I have anything but a pleasant recollection
of running for it once myself in an open boat, when things
were looking nasty outside. But when we got within a few
hundred yards of Widmouth Head, there was such a sea
running that we feared being " pooped," and, preferring
Scylla to Charybdis, put out to sea again, and fought our
way back to Ilfracombe as best we could. So there is
barely enough shipping to give the cove an air of life. One
or two little cutters, and perhaps a sloop lying up on the
foreshore discharging coal into country carts for the Castle
or Berrynarbor village.
The Castle stands on the slope above. It is an imposing
battlemented mansion, and, owing mainly perhaps to the
ivy and the buttressed wall that sinks from the terrace to
the park, looks much older than it really is. Its age is a
hundred years at the outside.
From the Castle the road rises again, and, passing at the
back of Widmouth Head, gains the hill top, a yard or two
short of which we shall pause for the last time to look at
* The ground, however, is private, and permission should be sought at
the Castle.
Widmouth Head. 79
the panorama eastward. There is no better coign of
vantage than this corner whence to enjoy — for it is enjoy-
ment— the splendid lines, the massive stateliness, the
aerial colouring of this the loftiest piece of coast in the
South of England. Over the blue waters of Combe Martin
Bay towers the Little Hangman, standing out sharp and
clear against the paler tints of his great brother, with his
tremendous precipices scarped as by the hand of a Titan
to the " foam-laced margin " below. In gully and crevasse
and furrow the cliffs of Trentishoe sweep to the eastward
until the horizon is cut by the rugged edge of High Veer.
Over Widmouth Head the gulls are wheeling in the
afternoon sunlight, uttering their weird cries, and darting
now and again at the dark ripple made by a " school " of
fish passing up Channel.
A few yards onward quite another scene breaks upon
the view. Here is the bold brow of Helesborough, or
Hillsborough as it is always called, and, immediately
behind it, Ilfracombe with its pier, its chapel-crowned peak,
and long cluster of houses stretching mistily up the winding
valley to the peaked range of the Torrs. At our feet,
sloping down to the sea in broken glacis of grass and rock,
is Rillage Point. Look at those great masses of rock —
limestone and slate and shale — off the extremity ! About
them the water is never still, for Rillage not only projects
into a tide race, but, for some reason which I cannot
explain, seems to be specially subject to the onslaught of
the rollers coming in from the Atlantic. When a stiff
westerly gale is blowing it is a fine sight to watch the
breakers spouting up these great sullen crags, falling back
in cascades of foam.
Between this point and Widmouth Head lies the little
rock-bound bay called Sampson's Cove. Here is Sampson's
cave. Sampson appears to have been a smuggler, and the
cave was his storehouse. It was in this cove that the
8o Geology of Rillage.
steamship Alexandra ran ashore two years ago. The
passengers were, of course, much alarmed, but the danger
proved practically nil. For the cliffs fall so sheer to the
water, that a ladder placed against them from the steamer's
deck enabled those on board to make an easy ascent to terra
firma. And the vessel was so little injured that many did
not even avail themselves of this mode of escape, but remained
on board, and were eventually landed at Ilfracombe.
The rocks of this cove are very richly coloured, and a late
resident at Ilfracombe, writing on the geology of the cliffs
hereabouts, refers to a singular rock, which he names the
Curtain Rock, " from its fancied resemblance to a richly
laced velvet curtain." " The lace-like dressing," he says,
" is due to numerous white quartz veins which intersect it
vertically at regular distances, contrasting strongly with the
dark rich brown of its furrowed face."* There are minerals,
too, in these cliffs, for " lead appears cropping out under
the landslip in a reddish shaly matrix."
To the geologist, indeed, this part of the Devonshire
coast is of no little interest. Many a specimen may be
picked up by the man who knows how and where to use
his hammer ; and, for a few pence, the quarrymen (when
there are any about) are only too glad to part with fossils that
they have come upon in their excavations. In Sampson's
Cove the boulders on the beach are full of Tentaculites,
and in the beds are found the remains of fish. Favosites
cervicornis lie in the limestones of Rillage and Widmouth
Head, and the beds about the path leading down to
Hagginton Beach, to the west of Rillage, contain every
fossil form of the district, including " casts of that rare shell
Rensellceria," this being the only locality in Great Britain
in which it has been noticed. f I am not much of a geologist
* So a rock off Rillage Point, ribbed with horizontal and vertical lines, is
known as the Bookcase Rock.
t " Notes on the Geology of Ilfracombe," by a late Resident.
Hele. — Chamber combe, 81
myself, and in names polysyllabic — not to say barbaric — take
little delight. But those who are enthusiasts in the stony
science, will, I think, enjoy themselves between Widmouth
Head and Hillsborough.
A vague tradition says that at the lowest tides the remains
ot a " Roman house " may be seen at the western end of
Sampson's Cove. I have never seen this remarkable ruin
myself, nor can I hear of anyone who has. Indeed, it is
puzzling to account for the presence of masonry — Roman
or otherwise — in such a position..
With the majestic peak of Hillsborough towering over-
head, the road winds down the face of Hagginton Hill to Hele.
Hele lies at the mouth of the deep valley of Chambercombe,
the lower part stretching along the left bank of a lively
brook which enters the sea over the rocks and shingle of
Hele Bay. In former days this hamlet had an ill reputation,
and many were the charges of wrecking laid at the doors of
its inhabitants. But it has mended its ways now. contenting
itself with growing vegetables for Ilfracombe, and supplying
trippers from that enterprising watering place with hot
water and milk for their picnics. There is no church, but
the school-room becomes on Sunday afternoon a mission
chapel, served by the clergy of an Ilfracombe parish, or their
representative.
For a long distance at the back of Hele the wooded
valley of Chambercombe winds upwards among the hills.
It is still a lovely valley, though the Ilfracombe builder is
doing his best to ruin it, and, at the lower end, some rows
of ghastly cottages are already putting the green meadows
out of countenance. But the lane from Hele is still untouched,
and by it we will once more leave the sea for awhile, and
penetrate this characteristic Devonshire valley.
Chambercombe is a contraction of Champernowne Combe.
The white gabled farmhouse that we see among the trees
the other side of the stream was once the abode of this
G
82 A Ghost Story.
ancient family, and, indeed, known as Champernownesheys.
You enter the barton beneath an old tiled gateway like a
lych-gate, and, once within the house, see that it is no
building of modern days. Great beams cross the ceilings,
and in a room upstairs there is a plaster cornice and the
arms of Champernowne over the mantelpiece.
Of course such a place must have a legend, and, equally
of course, such a legend must have different versions. The
most matter-of-fact tale is as follows : One summer evening
the farmer, smoking his pipe in the garden, fell to studying
the roof of the house, which needed repairs. While con-
sidering which of the windows would most readily give
access to the roof, he was puzzled at noticing, for the first
time, a window for which he could not account. Calling to
his men to bring tools, he hurried upstairs, and at once
attacked the wall of the passage opposite the mysterious
casement. In a few minutes the plaster gave way, and the
farmer, creeping through the breach, found himself in a
long, low room furnished with tables and chairs of ancient
date, and hung with moth-eaten tapestry. But the object
to which his attention was first attracted was a bed with
close-drawn faded curtains. With trembling hand the
farmer tore them aside and started back in horror, for
before him lay a skeleton.
Such, in brief, is the legend of Chambercombe. Addi-
tions more or less picturesque — not to say improbable —
have been made thereto, and one writer states that, when
the farmer, gasping for air, flung open the window, " the
garden was alive with ghastly forms ; ill-shapen, unearthly,
demon-like heads rose and fell with threatening gestures,
and mopped and mowed at him from among the flowers."
Now, I am always sorry to destroy or weaken a legend —
they are vanishing quickly enough as it is before the
cynicism and scepticism of this nineteenth century — but
I have examined the " haunted room," and this is what I
Chamber combe. 83
saw. No bed-chamber at all, but simply a loft or space in
the sloping roof. There was no floor even, except of the
roughest joists and the lath and plaster of the ceiling
below, and certainly no window. There was, and still is, a
breach in the wooden partition that divides this loft from
the passage, but it is far too narrow to admit a man. Nor
is entrance necessary, as the whole of the little chamber
may be seen by the light of a candle thrust through the
opening. The present tenant of the farm smiles at the ghost
story, but says that there is reason enough to believe that
the room was once the abiding place of spirits, but spirits
of a different sort — in fact, it was a store-room for smuggled
goods. Perhaps, after this, the other version will fall flat.
Still, it may be true, and no one need swallow more than
he wishes. It is said that a French vessel was once lured
on shore by the wreckers of Hele, and that the only survivor
was murdered in this chamber.
G 2
CHAPTER VII.
ILFRACOMBE.
Chambercombe — Trayne — Hillsborough — Rapparee Cove — Ilfracombe
Harbour — Lantern Hill— History of Ilfracombe — The Town — The
Capstone — Wildersmouth — Runnacleaves — The Torrs — Climate —
Church — An Old Monument.
BUT a truce to these dark stories. For, whether true or
not, they do not make a saunter in Chambercombe more
cheerful, especially towards evening, when the heavy foliage
at the head of the valley is dusky long before the sunset
tints have faded from the dark crags of Hillsborough or the
lighter rocks of the Capstone.
It is a sweet spot, and we appreciate it all the more
because a mile or two inland the country is bald and bare.
It is only along the coast, where these semi-moorland valleys
" descend in grace," that we get these coombes.
And Chambercombe is not alone. At Comyn Farm, the
next above the " haunted house," another valley forks to the
left, which, at its upper end, is as pretty — even prettier —
than Chambercombe. This is the Trayne Valley, and this
also is watered by a brook. The lower end is overlooked
on the one hand by the narrow wooded ridge that separates
it from Chambercombe, on the other by steep slopes of
pasture rising into round-headed hills and knolls. Among
these is Trayne Farm, a rough little homestead commanding
a pleasant view down the valley, with a, fortunately, distant
prospect of some gaunt-looking houses built on the slope
at the back of Hillsborough. And, if you can stand a
Hillsborough. 85
roughish scramble, you will do well to penetrate into the
woodland scenes at the extreme head of the valley. You
will find a glen as fine in its way as any in Devonshire, and
the whole picture of fir and oak and elm, with the brook
rushing over mossy rocks at the bottom of the narrow glen,
is like one of the border valleys of Dartmoor. It is difficult
to believe that Ilfracombe and the fashions are only three
miles away.
And towards Ilfracombe we must now turn our steps. I
do not think we can do better than make our way back to
Chambercombe, and ascend the rocky way that goes up
beneath the oaks to what was once a lane, but has now
become a wide road with a row of artisans' cottages,
a line of villas, a brand new chapel, and other signs of the
march of " improvement." This will lead us again into the
coach road at the extreme eastern end of the town, and,
turning back a few yards towards Hele, we shall find a gate
opening on to the path up Hillsborough.
Hillsborough, as its name would imply, was once fortified.
It means the steep fortification. On the landward side wrere,
and still may be traced, two lines of earthwork, the outer
of some height. The space inclosed was not far short of
twenty acres. But when these ramparts were thrown up,
and by whom, no man knoweth.
Set by the side of the eastern cliffs, Hillsborough would be of
small account, butcoming,as it does, after a comparatively low
range of cliffs, and towering high over the little land-locked
harbour of Ilfracombe, it is a most imposing headland, and
anywhere but within view of the Hangman would be con-
sidered a very lofty precipice indeed. And it is certainly
not the least graceful among the headlands of North Devon.
In form, if not in elevation, it is a true mountain, the ridge
rising in broken edges of rock and turf to a peak, from
which the cliff sinks nearly perpendicularly four hundred
and forty-seven feet to the sea.
86 Hillsborough.
And the sides are nearly as precipitious as the face — you
can look right down on Hele Bay with its green water and
shelving reefs, upon Rillage with its eternal line of foam,
upon Chambercombe with its woods and meadows. And
eastward you may see again the Hangman Hills, Hold-
stone Down, and Trentishoe Cliffs, and even the top of
the Foreland, softer than ever in the haze that is born of
distance. On the other side is Ilfracombe. It lies so
immediately beneath that almost every house is visible.
There is the little harbour with its quaint chapel crowning
the rock above ; there the Capstone Hill and the breezy
Torrs, rising one above the other towards the sweep of Slade
Down westward. In the winding valley between these hills
and the sea, and along the northern slopes, lies the town,
a jumble of old and new (the new, however, predomi-
nating), with the slate spire of the church of SS. Philip
and James rising above the housetops at the back of tHe
harbour.
But it is not only the outline of Hillsborough which is
pleasing to the eye. The colouring is more pleasing still.
The mixed character of its formation — the shales, slates, lime-
stone grits, and sandstone — gives it a richness of hue which
few cliffs along this northern coast can show. The blues, reds,
browns, and greys blend with one another as softly as do the
colours of the ever-changing sea below. And every nook and
cranny is filled with vegetation. Ivy, convolvulus, and grasses
grow everywhere, mingled with the pink sea thrift and white
campion.
On the eastern side there is little rock. The hill is
covered with greensward and bracken. Here, between
the battery belonging to the Artillery Volunteers and Hele,
is a curious cave. It looks almost natural, but is really fhe
result of quarrying. The quarrymen of past days, in
excavating under the hill for limestone, have worked
according to the strike of the strata — that is, at a sharp
Rapparee Cove. — Ilfracombe Harbour. 87
angle upwards. The result is a wide, low cavern, with
a sloping roof supported by massive pillars of natural
rock.
Nor is this the only cave under Hillsborough. The waves
have worn many another hollow in the cliffs, and at one
point, facing Ilfracombe, there is a natural arch through
which at high water it is possible to row a boat, though the
passage is not one to be recommended. Under the highest
point is a gravelly beach, but this is very difficult of access,
and bathers must go to Rapparee Cove, a land-locked inlet,
where the cliffs fall away towards the harbour. The
privilege, like most others in Ilfracombe, has to be paid for,
but the game in this case is certainly worth the candle, for
there are few pleasanter spots for a plunge. The name, as
well as that of the old Combe Martin revel of (( Earl of
Rone " is to be traced up to the great Irish Rebellion of
1598.* In Rapparee Cove drove ashore one of the prizes
taken by Lord Rodney in an engagement with the French
and Spanish. f She became a total wreck, and for some
years the skulls of the prisoners and some of the treasure
in the shape of coins were picked up on the beach. It is
said that many of these skulls were those of negroes, so
that the engagement must have been that of 1782, when
Rodney defeated the Comte de Grasse. It was for this
achievement that he was raised to the peerage.
The harbour of Ilfracombe is a cove beneath walls of
rock mantled with underwood and ivy. So sheltered is it
that within the stone arm of the inner pier the water is like
that of a millpond, and the strongest gale that ever blew
could scarce ruffle its surface. In stormy weather it is,
indeed, the principal harbour of refuge this end of the
* Mrs. Slade King, " The Olden Times of Ilfracombe." (Trans. Dev. Ass.
vol. x.)
t Mrs. Slade King now says : " A Bristol ship with slaves aboard," and adds
that the bodies of the poor negroes were refused Christian burial, and
that their skulls are " at times turned up in the neighbouring fields."
88 Ilfracombe Harbour.
Bristol Channel. It is only, however, adapted for small
craft, and seldom shelters vessels of more than two or
three hundred tons at the outside.
The stone pier was built by the Bourchiers, Earls of Bath,
lords of the " royal" manor, which was at the eastern end
of the town. In 1760 it was rebuilt and enlarged by their
descendant Sir Bourchier Wrey, and again enlarged by Sir
Bourchier Palk Wrey. All which facts may be read on
a tablet in the wall at the end, where the Bourchiers are
described as " vice-admirals of this place."
The outer harbour has no such pier, and depends for
protection on the natural walls of Hillsborough. But round
the rocks has been built a wooden promenade pier in the
shape of a half hexagon, where the excursion steamers
come in, and where promenaders may disport themselves.
This pier was also built by the Wreys. The piles are said to
be subject to the ravages of the Teredo navalts, a worm that
takes delight in boring minute holes. But even this pro-
voking creature has its uses, although the proprietors of the
Ilfracombe Pier may be slow to recognise them. When
Brunei was engaged upon the Thames Tunnel, he was much
exercised as to the best kind of boring machine. But as he
stood in one of our dockyards he noticed some creature
with a peculiar arrangement about its head boring steadily
into a piece of timber. "Eureka!" said Brunei; "you
are the fellow for me." It was the Teredo navalts,
and a Teredo navalis, or something very like it, in
steel, did the great engineer make, and so the tunnel
was bored. Even a nuisance like this may form a useful
object lesson.
Lantern Hill is a conical peak of slate about a hundred
feet high. On the summit stands the little building " where
seven hundred years ago our West Country forefathers used
to go to pray St. Nicholas for deliverance from shipwreck
— a method lovingly regretted by some as a ' pious idea of
Lantern Hill. 89
the ages of faith.' "* On the top of the western gable a
rather feeble lantern gives the hill its name and a modicum
of light to shipping entering the harbour. This lighthouse
on Lantern Hill is an affair of no modern date. It is
mentioned in Bishop Voysey's "Register" as long ago as
1522. "In capella S. Nicholai super Portum Ville de
Ilfracombe fundata, luminare quoddam singulis annis per
totam hiemem nocturnis temporibus in summitate dicte
capelle ardens, velut stella nocte coruscans invenitur " —
which, for those who do not understand Latin, may be thus
interpreted : " On the chapel of St. Nicholas above the
harbour of the town of Ilfracombe a light like a star
shining in the night is found year by year throughout the
winter burning on the top of the said chapel."
The Bishop states that it eminently contributed to the
preservation of human life by guiding vessels in the midst
of storms and tempests into a port of safety, and, as the
means of the inhabitants were insufficient to continue the
maintenance of such light for the public good, his lordship
invites the faithful to assist by offering to all true penitents
an indulgence of forty days: " Qui ad dicti Luminis sus-
tentationum manus porrexerint adjutrices."
The chapel was one of four attached to the Church of
Holy Trinity. There was one at Westercombe of the same
dedication as the church, another at West Hagginton,
between Hele and Berrynarbor, dedicated to Our Lady.
The third, dedicated to St. Wendreda, was at Lee, which,
though still within the parish of Ilfracombe, has now a
district church of its own. With the exception of that of
St. Nicholas, all the chapels have disappeared, though
" Chapel Cottage " at Lee still perpetuates the name of one
of these ancient sanctuaries.
Buffeted by the winter storms, lashed by the winter spray,
patched, like Nelson's Victory, till little of the original
* CHARLES KINGSLEY ("Prose Idylls ").
go Lantern Hill,
fabric seems left, it is difficult to determine the age of this
queer old building on Lantern Hill. Kingsley boldly gives
it an age of seven centuries at least, but the little blocked
up lancet in the western wall does not look as if it dated
earlier than the fourteenth century. Against the wall near
the north-western corner is a three-sided buttress-like piece
of masonry. On the top of this was no doubt the ancient
lantern, and the marks of the framework of the cage, or
window, that contained it are still plainly to be seen
against the wall above the masonry. There is nothing
ecclesiastical about it now, not even the windows, which
are like those of a house. The place is empty, and deserted
by all but the man who sees to the light, and he only visits it
for a few moments at night, or occasionally, perhaps, to
hoist the storm cone on the flagstaff hard by.
If you look within you will see a room furnished with
a deal table, and bare whitewashed walls, unrelieved by
picture or even chart — a room empty and dismal. It is
only the exterior that is picturesque. Part of this ivy
has claimed for its own, and the rocky slopes have
been planted with flowers. Looking at the harbour below
with its handful -of coasters, no one would imagine that
in bygone times Ilfracombe was a port of some renown,
and that, while Liverpool sent only one ship to swell the
fleet collected by Edward the Third against France, this
little North Devon haven sent six ! In those days the
population must have consisted almost entirely of sailors
living in houses clustering about the mouth of the valley.
Here are nearly all the old houses of Ilfracombe. The
western end of the town is, for the most part, new,
and, even in recent years, little more than a single street
wound along the hillside down to the sea. Now its
importance is the importance of a rising watering place
rather than that of a port ; lines of terraces stretch along
the slopes, and look down upon the harbour; hotels
ILFRACOMBE FROM RILLAGE. FROM A SKETCH BY
THE AUTHOR.
Ilfracombe. — Ilfracombe History. 91
and lodging houses are everywhere, and the clumsy vessel of
the fourteenth century is succeeded by the swift excursion
steamer.
But ancient as some of the houses about this pier
undoubtedly are, there is little of the picturesque about
them. Your mariner does not, as a rule, indulge in much
decoration, and, possibly because he gets so much of it at
sea, he prefers when on land to take the fresh air in small
quantities, and usually pokes himself away in some obscure
alley smelling strongly of fish and tar. There are many
such alleys and passages at the back of Ilfracombe Harbour,
though they will not be there long. The " improver " is at
work, and street widening, hotel building, and other signs
of the march of the nineteenth century are slowly but
surely relegating these ancient tenements to oblivion. Nor
can one altogether regret it. Fresh air, pure water, and
good drainage are blessings not to be sneered at, and,
although our ancestors appear to have got along sufficiently
well with very little of either of the blessings first named,
and were perfectly indifferent to the last, there is no doubt
that epidemics were much more prevalent than we have
any idea of. There were no sanitary authorities in those
days, nor local papers either to publish outbreaks of disease,
or to keep the said authorities up to the mark. Conse-
quently, if a small plague broke out nobody knew anything
about it, or, if they did, nobody cared.
We next hear of the importance of the place in the days
of Elizabeth. It is customary to assume that the port of
those days was Bideford, and the town on the Torridge
did, no doubt, hold at that time a pre-eminent position
among the ports of Devon. But when Ireland was
disturbed by the rebellion which burst out towards the end
of the sixteenth century, Ilfracombe was the place selected
for the transport of the troops. And from Ilfracombe first
came the news of the rebellion of 1601, when the Spaniards
92 Ilfracombe History.
landed at Kinsale under Don John D'Aquila, and at another
place under the command of Alfonzo Ocampo, only to be
defeated with great slaughter by the deputy Lord Mount] oy.
It came in for its share, too, of the Civil War, for in the
autumn of 1644 it was taken by Sir Francis Doddington.
In the parish church register, under date the 2ist of August
of that year, seven persons are named as " slain in fight
twentieth day," and these were doubtless killed in the
skirmish which then took place. A field called the Bloody
Meadow, near the Runnacleaves, now built over, is pointed
out as the scene of the conflict.
In the summer of 1685 the town was disturbed by some
refugees from Sedgemoor. One Colonel Wade, Ferguson,
Monmouth's chaplain, and a party of Dragoons under the
command of Captain Hewling made their way to Ilfracombe,
which they fell upon so suddenly that they managed to
secure a ship lying in the harbour before any force could be
got together to oppose them. They set sail, but were driven
ashore by a man-of-war somewhere near Combe Martin.
Once more they escaped, but the hue and cry was raised,
and Wade was taken at Brendon, near Lynton. Ferguson
and Hewling were also captured. With unwonted magna-
nimity James pardoned both Wade and Ferguson, but
Hewling was executed.
The last historical event in connection with Ilfracombe
took place just a hundred years ago. The harbour was
invaded by a Frenchman, which sunk the coasters and then
sailed for the opposite coast of Pembroke. Here, through a
ridiculous ruse, they came to dire grief. Lord Cawdor,
having no time to send for troops, attired the miners in
their wives' red flannel petticoats and spread them along the
cliffs. Telescopes were not of such long ranges in those
days. The Frenchmen fell into the trap, and, imagining
that a large force was ready to receive them, incontinently
surrendered without firing a shot.
High Street, Ilfracombe. — Shelter. — Capstone. 93
From the pier the main street winds up the hillside, and
follows the line of the hill facing the sea for the best part of
a mile. It is a picturesque street in its way, the western
end being filled in by the furzy slopes of Langleigh Cleeve
and the broken lines of the Torrs. From this thoroughfare
strike other and shorter streets, some of them very steep,
and everywhere are mysterious passages that will remind
the visitor from the country beyond the Tyne and Tweed
of the " yards " and " wynds " of the North. Above and
below this High Street are rows and rows of houses, those
below, which follow the line of the road that runs down
the bottom of the valley, being mostly lodgings, boarding
establishments, and hotels. In fact, Ilfracombe is nothing
if not devoted to its visitors, and every other house is a
lodging house or private hotel.
Midway along the sea front rises the hill called the Cap-
stone, the favourite promenade of the place. On the side
facing the town it is covered with smooth turf, where sheep
pasture, giving the hill quite a rural aspect, though they
consort rather oddly with the long glass pavilion at the foot,
and the stream of gaily dressed people thronging in and
out listening to the strains of the band. This pavilion,
known, by the way, to the irreverent as the " Cucumber
Frame," is a kind of small winter garden or concert-room, and
is the place where the visitor to Ilfracombe doth daily and
nightly resort, especially nightly, for then does the shelter
become a place of entertainment indeed, and there is singing
and acting galore.
But to the Capstone. On the seaward side it falls steep
to the water, yet not so steep but that grass grows all the
way down to the rocks at its feet. Along the face of the hill,
only a few feet above the clear green water, and following
the lines of the coast from the back of " Compass Hill " to
Wildersmouth, runs the Parade — one of the most beautiful
sea walks in the kingdom. Nor is this the only promenade.
94 Wilder smouth.
All over the hill paths wind in every direction ; and it
is quite easy to reach the watch-house and flagstaff of
the coastguard on the summit, from which you will
get a perfect panoramic view of the town and all its
surroundings.
The drawback to Ilfracombe is want of beach. This is,
to a certain extent, redeemed by Wildersmouth, a rock-
bound cove at the western end of the Capstone, where
there is a gravelly strand, the chosen haunt of children,
who spend their time between getting their feet wet and
watching delightedly — as do children of a larger growth —
the villainies of that ruffian, Mr. Punch.
It is a picturesque spot, and, when a stiff north-wester
is blowing, a wild one too. For to the left of the cove
run out reefs of "sharks' teeth," jagged lines of dark
slate, their points always inclining, as if in defiance,
towards the breakers. Over these the seas hurl them-
selves in masses of foam, and great flakes of spindrift
fly wildly inland, bespattering the windows up the hill-
sides with lumps as big as your fist. Then not even
the overpowering presence of the big hotel that looks
down upon the cove can take from the wildness of the
cove.
Wildersmouth is simply the mouth of the Wilder, just as
Heddons Mouth is the mouth of the Heddon, or Lynmouth
the mouth of the Lyn. Among men "some are born
great, some become great, and some have greatness thrust
upon them." So it is with the Wilder. It was neither born
great nor has it become great ; it has had greatness thrust
upon it. This tiny stream, which is only three miles long
at the outside, is dignified by the name of river. Why, even
with the assistance of another Wilder — which comes down
the Score Valley, a picturesque combe below the Braunton
road — it does not exceed six feet in width, and in summer,
quite loses itself in the beach.
The Torrs. 95
Beyond the hotel, which is by far the most imposing-
building in Ilfracombe, stretch the Runnacleaves, a broken
line of cliffs pierced by tunnels conducting to bathing coves.
Bathing ponds are made by walls of masonry built across
from rock to rock. These are covered twice daily by the sea,
so that bathers can disport themselves at any state of the
tide.
Immediately beyond the bathing beaches are the Torrs, a
range of hills gradually rising one above the other to a
height of six hundred and fifteen feet above the sea. These
Torrs protect from the north-westerly gales the upper end
of the valley, along which stretch the villas and terraces of
the more western part of the town. This Torrs Park, as it is
called, with its green slopes and trees and villa gardens is
certainly the prettiest part of Ilfracombe. The valley ends
in a sort of cut de sac formed by the green wall of
Langleigh Cleeve, which sweeps round the head of the
combe seaward till it joins the wave-like undulations of
the Torrs.
" You can live as long as you like in Combe, but you
must go somewhere else to die." Such is the local proverb,
and the tombstones in the churchyard certainly show that,
if the people of Ilfracombe are not immortal, many of them
live to an age far beyond that usually allotted to man. The
three score and ten of the Psalmist, even four score, are
thought nothing of — witness the list of centenarians on
the slate slabs at the eastern end of the church. Four of
them are over 100, one is 107. Whether their latter
years are " labour and sorrow " history sayeth not. At any
rate, here is the record of their age, and, as the stones
could hardly have been set up without ecclesiastical sanction,
we may, I suppose, take the years recorded upon them to
be correct.
Therefore Ilfracombe should be a very healthy place —
and such it claims to be. You have certainly a choice of
•g6 Ilfracombe Church.
•climates. For along the sea front, where the houses face
northward and westward, the air is fresh and bracing,
while in the sheltered Torrs Park, with its southern aspect,
the climate is as mild as that of many watering places along
the southern seaboard. At the foot of the hills again —
say at the back of the Capstone — the air has elements both
mild and exhilarating. So you can get almost any climate
you like. Happy Ilfracombe !
Old as the town undoubtedly is, there is, with the
•exception of the Chapel of St. Nicholas, only one very old
building in Ilfracombe. This is the parish church, dedicated to
the Holy Trinity, a large and interesting building on the hill-
side over against the Torrs, which sweep round the northern
end of the valley in a fine semicircle. It has every style
•of architecture from Norman to late Perpendicular, the
Norman period being represented by the font, now so
restored that it might have been made yesterday, and by the
grey stone columns and arches of the nave, the Decorated by
the chancel, while the remainder of the church, except the
tower, is Perpendicular.
The aisles are of equal length with the nave and chancel,
a feature very common in Devonshire churches, and which,
though it adds to the size of the building, rather detracts
from their dignity. But the chancel of this church has been
further shorn of its honours. For whereas it once had three
bays it now has but two, the third bay having been thrown
into the nave. The portion of the roof — which is of the
usual wagon build — beyond this bay is richly coloured and
decorated. Beneath it was the screen, of which no vestige
remains.
To go more into detail, it will be noticed that the Norman
•columns of the nave, which are said to date from early in
the twelfth century, are very rough and unfinished. The
pillars, octagonal in shape, are lowr and massive, and, beyond
.a narrow ridge from which the arches spring, have no
Ilfracombe Church. 97
capitals whatever. Towards the eastern end these arches
merge into Perpendicular ones of totally different stone,
colour, and shape, giving the whole of the nave a strange
unfinished appearance. The chancel was built in 1322 by
order of Bishop Stapleton (who also caused twenty-four feet
to be added to the nave and the aisles to be lengthened),
but little of the architecture of this period is to be seen
" except the aisles on the north side of the chancel
and a single arch in the aisle near the tower."* For,
some years later, the building was again pulled to
pieces and the Perpendicular style introduced largely.
Other alterations have also been made, with the result that
only one old window remains, and that very debased ; it
is in the north chancel aisle. The chancel was restored in
1 86 1, and the tracery of the east window is quite new,
though a revival of the original style — that is, Decorated.
The south aisle has been rebuilt.
No traces remain of the rood screen, and the present
parclose screens are quite modern. But there is an oak
Jacobean pulpit and a fine old oak altar.
The most curious features of this church are the corbels
in the nave — supposed to date from about the year 1300.
They consist of hideous monsters carved in stone, upon
whose shoulders stand wooden figures of angels. It is rare
to find such exceptionally grotesque figures -within the
walls of a church, though they are often common enough
without. It looks as if the gargoyles had come from their
perches outside and invaded the sanctuary. A local writer
suggests that they perform the double task of bearing
against their will the fabric of the roof and the forms of the
virtues as symbolised by the angelic figures.
Another peculiar feature is the position of the tower,
which rises from the middle of the north aisle, which has
* Rev. T. F. Ravenshaw (formerly curate), p. 93, " Arch. North Dev."
H
98 Ilfracombe Church.
very evidently been built on to it. Opinions differ as to its
age. One authority thinks it is Early English ; another that
the lowest of the three stages is Norman ; a third that
this lower part dates from a period anterior even to that,
perhaps even anterior to Saxon times, and that, from the
fact that it is "battered" as if to resist attack, it was
once a fort or watch-tower existing long before the church
was thought of. Of whatever periods the lower styles
may be, the battlements and pinnacles are certainly Per-
pendicular.
For so large a church — it is a hundred and thirteen feet
long by sixty-one wide — there are few important monu-
ments. The most interesting are those to Captain Richard
Bowen, who fell in Nelson's attack upon Teneriffe, erected
by the Government ; to the mother of Prince, author of the
" Worthies of Devon " ; and a tablet in the chancel, bearing
a long and curious anagrammatic inscription to Charles and
Grace Cutcliffe, who died in 1637 within a few days of each
other. Another tablet in the north aisle bears a nearly
illegible inscription recording the virtues of one Catharine
Parminter, whose " Innocence and Prudence were so lovely
that had you known her conversation you would have said
she was the daughter of Eve before she eated of the apple."
This paragon went to a better world in 1660.
A fourth monument worthy of notice is the heavy grey
stone slab let into the wall behind the south door — a
venerable piece of oak that looks as old as anything in
the building. It is to the memory of Marie Selwood, who
died in 1634. The inscription is raised, and begins by
running round the edge of the stone, finishing down the
middle.
In the churchyard, a few feet from the south wall, is the
cover stone from the grave of some ecclesiastic, incised
with the remains of a cross of which the head was once
inclosed in a circle. It has been regarded as part of the
Ilfracombe Church. 99
tomb of one of the Champernownes or Champernulfes, but
the inscription as I read it, is
+ HENRI + DA . IE + GIT ICI DEV DEL ALME El.
MERCI*
the point in the proper name representing a letter that looks
like N or M, and that in the word El of course being T,
which has vanished in a fracture. This stone is supposed
to date from the twelfth century.
* Henry Da-ie lies here, God on his soul have mercy.
H 2
CHAPTER VIII.
MORTEHOE.
The Road to Lee — Over the Torrs — Cairn Top — Lee — Damage — John Cut-
cliffe — A Smugglers' Hole — Wreck of the Leamington — Bull Point — A
Pleasant Musical Instrument — Rockham Bay — Mortehoe — A Doubtful
Cromlech — Morty Well — Mortehoe Church — De Tracey.
THE country about Ilfracombe is very hilly — so hilly that legs
unaccustomed to Devonshire will find their account in
passing over the broken ground that heaves up in rocky
ridges along the cliffs between Langleigh Cleeve and Morte.
However, we have, or ought to have, Devonshire legs by
this time, and, as Caleb Tucker says, in " Christowell,"
" Devonshire legs go up and down by power of habit with-
out much strain." So let us set forth westward ho ! right
manfully.
There is not much road now. What there is is very rough
because very unfrequented. Nowadays the main roads leave
little to be desired, but some of these by-ways, especially
near the coast, are in much the same state as were the
turnpikes of a hundred years ago, the condition of which so
excited the wrath of the traveller Dibdin.* " The best
horses in the world," he writes, " would be ruined by such
roads ; and whenever any but those accustomed to the
country are brought there, the ostlers, by way of wit, look
at their knees to see whether they are marked, as they call
it, with the Devonshire arms." Dibdin, of course, referred
* This is the author of the well-known sea songs. The quotation (as well
as others later) is from a letter written by Dibdin to the Rev. Dr. Cruwys, of
Cruwys Morchard, kindly lent me by George Cruwys, Esq., the present
lord of the manor.
Roads. — Torrs — Torrs Walks. 101
to carriage horses, and the roads he anathematised were, as
I have said, the turnpikes, then, no doubt, kept disgracefully.
But we have changed all that. No horse would be injured
by any carriage road in North Devon now, and reproach has
been taken away from many of the by-ways. So that one
seldom sees " the wretched animals stretching their sinews
and clambering like cats," and, if such a sight is seen, there
is nothing " pitiable " about it. The horse engaged in this
acrobatic performance is a native and used to it. North
Devon lanes were never meant for outsiders, far less for the
" best horses in the world."
But, whether in a carriage or on your own legs, you cannot
get out of Ilfracombe without climbing a hill — and a long
one, too. Why, even the railway train has to get up some
three hundred feet from Ilfracombe to Mortehoe, the next
station, and Ilfracombe Station itself is three hundred feet
above the town to begin with. The amphitheatre sweeps
round the town, five, six, seven hundred feet high, not
closely, but with ample space for air, and with a slope that
is not always steep. And here and there is a combe which
lets in the breeze when it is off the sea — which it
generally is — with large freedom.
Being afoot, our road out of Ilfracombe is along the front
of the Torrs. There is another way, it is true — up the
steep and stony lane that lies in the hollow between
Langleigh Cleeve and the westernmost of the Torrs. This
those superior " carriage folk " may try if they list. I had
almost added " and if they can," but, on reflection, I
remember once meeting a " fly " in the narrow lane further
on towards Lee, so it is evident that the Ilfracombe cabby
does sometimes take his beast up Langleigh Lane. After
all, a little persuasion goes a long way. " What ! drive to
Brighton in six hours ? " exclaimed a London livery-stable
keeper to two Frenchmen. " Vy not ? " returned the Gauls,
placidly ; " ve've both got vhips ! "
IO2 The Torrs.
You must pay, though, for the privilege of going upon
these Torrs. Never was there such a place as Ilfracombe
for tolls. You pay to bathe at Rapparee Cove, the only
accessible bit of beach at the east end ; you pay to bathe
at the Tunnels, the only accessible bit at the west end. It
is true you can scramble down beneath the Torrs, but here
there is little or no privacy. Then you are mulcted for the
pier and Lantern Hill, mulcted again to go upon the Torrs
walks, and, "most unkindest cut of all" (which is good
Shakspeare but bad grammar), mulcted again to go off.
For the Torrs, alas ! belong to different owners, and, while
you may walk to within a short distance of the top for a
penny, you may not reach that top, far less leave it, without
being called upon to stand and deliver one penny more.
However, grumble as we may, I suppose there is something
to be said in favour of each and all of these tolls. They
serve to keep out the commonest of the common trippers,
so let us pay our oboli and be thankful.
There are seven summits, conical furze-clad knolls, rising
one after the other like the crests of waves. Towards the
land the slopes are pasture — where they have not been built
upon — but the seaward face is pretty much as Dame Nature
left it. All that man has done is to cut paths along the
steeps — paths that wind up and through bracken, hawthorn,
and other undergrowth, and now and again through parterres
of primrose, wild hyacinth, and campion. " Old man's beard"
hangs from the rocks, creepers straggle over the rough
places, and here and there, though it is not very plentiful,
are clumps of heather. Far below the sea breaks over the
reefs, and casts its spray against the broken cliffs of slate.
On the waters is a continual coming and going — the stately
ship, its sails now white in the sun, now dark beneath a
cloud shadow ; the heavy coaster or Clovelly trawler with
warm brown canvas, the useful but unpicturesque collier
ploughing heavily onward, and the excursion steamer
Cairn Top. — Lee* 103
crammed with holiday makers. The holiday maker — and
we love him for it — does not haunt these Torrs as much as
he might, considering their beauty. Considering, too, the
attractions offered him upon the summit, for on the topmost
peak is a large glass refreshment house surrounded by a
bristling array of automatic machines — vulgo, " penny in
the slots." Even here is evidence of the inevitable
cockneyfying which everywhere, nowadays, overtakes the
fashionable watering place. Alas ! and alas ! Time was
when these breezy heights knew not the cheap tripper,
when glass houses did not exist, when automatic machines
were undreamt of. But that time has passed away for
evermore, unless, indeed, a new generation shall arise that
knows not the cockney, that insists on relegating such
monstrosities to a humbler position, where they shall neither
spoil the scenery nor cry aloud " Here I am ! if you want meat
or drink — or packets of sweet stuff — or sunbaked cigarettes —
or penny surprise packets — or sham jewellery, come, oh come
to me!" But will that time ever arrive? I trow not.
Whether we like these traps for the tripper's penny or no,
we must pass them if we are to get on westward and pay our
penny, too. For, if we escape the seductions of the gaily
painted iron boxes, we cannot evade the toll. But now
Cerberus is satisfied, and, as we stand upon the hill top by
the gaily decked flagstaff, we are fain to confess that
payment has not been made in vain. What a view it is !
Ilfracombe fills the valley and climbs the slopes below. We
look down upon the Capstone and Lantern Hill and the
Harbour, even upon the brown and blue cliffs of Hillsborough
and the foam-edged rocks of Rillage, while over all rises
the bare brow of the Hangman and the faint undulations of
Exmoor. To the south are the valleys of Score and Slade,
separated by the wooded tor of Cairn Top, rising above the
railway station. This rock-capped hill, not yet — mirabile
dictu ! — subject to toll, has a grim story. Here, it is said, a
IO4 The Way to Lee.
Jew pedlar was murdered for the sake of his wares, though
what he and particularly his pack were about on Cairn Top
tradition does not relate. At the head of the Slade Valley,
invisible from here, are the reservoirs, two picturesque sheets
of water made by throwing dams across the narrowing valley.
Now look westward. The land descends towards the sea
in slopes of green, broken and seamed and fissured, to the
edge of the cliffs. So broken, so rugged is this coast line that
scarcely two yards are alike ; the sea has gnawed out creeks
and coves and openings, some with a floor of bare rock,
others strewn with sand or gravel or pebbles. There is one
just beneath our feet — White Pebble Bay it is called, lying
just within the embrace of that low green point that slopes so
evenly seaward. This you may reach by steps cut in the cliff,
and it is worth exploring, for the colouring is splendid. Then
there is Brandy Cove, too — not so named without reason, I fear.
In fact, but a few years since there were people still living
who could tell you what sort of stuff the smugglers landed
there. Further away the prospect is bounded by the rough
ridges between Lee Bay and Mortehoe, the headland furthest
west with the white lighthouse being Bull Point, while nearer
and loftier now uprises on the sky line the long wall of Lundy.
Crossing a stile or two we get into the cart track that
passes over the downs to Lee. In places it is hardly visible,
so little is it used, and, except in the " season," the green
turf is seldom trodden by any but the few folk that pass
between Lee and Ilfracombe. But ere long the downs end,
and we enter a long lane, a sort of survival or revival of the
road, which has not one but many turnings before it drops, at
an angle that no carriage person will be strong-minded
enough to attempt, to Lee. For pedestrians there is a short
cut across the fields near the top of this descent, and this
we will take, for it leads to the upper part of the village and
commands from the furzy brow whence it begins to zigzag
downwards a full view of the valley.
Lee. 105
A fold in the high, bleak ground over which climbs the
railway — this is the commencement of the Lee Valley. But
at once it falls rapidly seaward, till half a mile from the bay
it is joined by the Borough Valley — a deep combe equally
beautiful. Above the tree tops on the north side of this
valley rock breaks forth in grey masses, while on the other
a semi-moorland park slopes upwards to the sky line. About
and above the junction of these combes lies Lee hamlet, and,
with a cottage here and a cottage there, it straggles down to
the sea in a purposeless kind of way, but which is indeed
far more picturesque than the regulation street of the
severely model village. There is a little church set under
the eastern hill, built about sixty years since ; a schoolhouse
adjoining, an inn where you may feed on strawberries and
cream, and just a handful of cottages before the stragglers
begin, set among hedges of fuchsia and myrtle five or six
feet high which you do not cut with a knife but prune with
a hook. For this village is lew, as the Doone folk have it —
that is, warm and sheltered — and in these gardens you can
grow almost anything. Each combe has its brook, that
which waters the Borough Valley being the largest. Above
its junction with the smaller stream stands a handsome
modern house, built in the Tudor style, the residence of a
well-known writer on North Devon and its scenery.
Lee Bay is a rocky cove, bounded by shattered cliffs, the
light tints of which are all the more noticeable because
contrasted with the bright green and dark brown seaweed
that covers the floor of the cove. At the head of the bay
stands an old cottage, once a mill. But the wheel has been
removed, and the millstream falls to the beach uninterrupted.
Round the shore sweeps the road, separated only from the
beach by a low wall, against which the waves break when
the tide is high.
Passing a " tea house " or two we climb a steep hill
overhung with trees. At the top the cliffs rise to a knoll
io6 Damage Farm.
crowned by a mound and flagstaff, and from this point
onward the coast line is closed, and the fields bristle with
warnings to trespassers. Not that trespassing can do any
harm. For most of the ground is barren enough; long ridges
following one another trend seaward, rugged with ribs of rock
and patched with gorse and heather. Between these ridges
are wild combes, the largest being Warcombe, where, on the
margin of the stream, the daffodils bloom abundantly.
Damage Farm, the weather-beaten old homestead on
the slope at its head, is a very ancient place indeed,
though I suppose that there is little left of the walls that
sheltered worthy John Cutcliffe, one of the earliest of our
Reformers. Cutcliffe, whose descendants are still lords of
the manor, was born at Damage in 1340. He appears
to have left his native land for France, and, being of a
religious turn of mind became a Friar Minor, and later a
Doctor of Divinity. After a while he saw the errors of
the Romish Church, and joined the Reformers, with the result
that he was thrown into Avignon Prison, from which he
never came forth.
As I have said, I do not suppose that there is much left of
the building within whose walls John Cutcliffe was born.
Certainly none of it is to be identified. Time and the
elements treat these hill farms roughly, and, although
Damage Barton looks old enough, there is no fourteenth-
century architecture recognisable. Rumour says that it has
sheltered wilder spirits than good old Johannes de
Rupecissa, as Cutcliffe was called, and that if stones had
tongues they might tell many a yarn of smugglers and
wreckers. These smugglers had a storehouse in the cliffs,
a gunshot or two this side of Lee Bay — just below the flag-
staff, in fact. Here in the brow of a peninsula, nearly
eaten away from the neighbouring cliff, a small opening
may be found. This leads into a hole about twelve feet
by six, of irregular shape and sloping downwards. The
Bull Point. 107
entrance is so narrow that a few bushes artistically arranged
would have completely concealed it. Here the smugglers
brought their tobacco, or lace, or whatever contraband of
small compass they had a mind to conceal. I say of small
compass advisedly, for the hole would have held very few
kegs of spirits, not to speak of the difficulty of hauling
anything heavy up the cliffs.
And tales of wrecks — happily wreckers are extinct — may
still be heard round the fireside. For this corner about
Morte is as dangerous as any part of the Bristol Channel,
and before Bull Point Lighthouse was built, in 1879, wrecks
were of frequent occurrence. The last disaster was the loss
of the steamship Leamington, which went down with all
hands off the mouth of Damage Valley, about four years
ago. She foundered close to the shore, but a thunder-
storm was raging at the time, and so dense was the darkness
that the people on the cliffs could see nothing, although the
cries of the drowning sailors rose high above the wild
February gale. At low water her mast may still be seen a
few feet below the surface.
Everywhere, except on the rocks themselves, the slopes
of the combes between Lee and Bull Point are in spring-
time gay with flowers. The ground, indeed, is perfectly
blue with the wild hyacinth, and all along the boggy ground
at the bottom of Warcombe primroses flourish exceedingly.
Among them we one day found a species of polyanthus, or
the primrose with several blossoms on one stem. Probably
this was a luSus naturae, and to what botanical name this
plant may be entitled we knew not, neither, I am afraid,
did we care. To the writer, indeed,
A primrose on the river's brim
A yellow primrose is to him,
And it is nothing more.
He is no botanist, and his descriptions of plants must
necessarily be imperfect.
io8 Foghorns.
As we mount the brow of the combe the peak above
Bull Point, which for awhile has been hidden, again comes
into view. The lighthouse itself stands on a grassy plateau
below, a hundred feet, perhaps, above sea level. It is short
and sturdy, the lantern rising but a few feet above the
houses of the keepers. But the sharp promontory on which
it stands renders a loftier building unnecessary, and the
light, which is a six-wick triple flash of great brilliancy, can
be seen on both sides for many miles. On the western
side, at a lower level, is a red light arranged to strike the
water clear of the dreaded Morte Stone. The syren or
foghorn attached to this lighthouse is worked by caloric
engines, which drive compressed air through the syren with
tremendous power, producing a blast sufficient, in ordinary
weather, to warn any vessel between Bideford Bar and
Ilfracombe. Even on land I have heard it plainly at a
distance of four miles, bellowing like a distressed bull —
indeed, Bull Point is no empty name for the headland that
bears this useful but unmelodious trumpet.
For, however pleasant the foghorn may sound to the
captain of some ship that has lost his bearings, there can be no
doubt that it is very trying to the light-keepers. Fancy one
of these " musical instruments " going night and day for
twenty-four hours or so ! Why, the hurly-burly must be
enough to bring on the " dismals."
And if it is objectionable on a shore lighthouse, where
the men may, to a certain extent, avoid it, what must it
be on some lonely pillar far out at sea ? Indeed, it is said
that some keepers can only be kept by giving them extra
pay, while others are made positively ill, and have to be
transferred to other places.* However, necessity has no
law, and a warning voice that can be heard ten miles away
is not to be lightly entreated. But one pities the poor
keepers.
* Manchester Evening News.
Rockham Bay. — Mortehoe. 109
The rocks of Bull Point, exposed as they are to the
western gale, are torn and shattered in every direction, and
the reefs are like saws. Between them at low tide the
water lies in long pools — water of that clear green colour
that we always find about these cliffs of slate.
A road bordered by telegraph posts connects the light-
house with Mortehoe village. But this does not follow the
coast, and our route lies along the curve of Rockham Bay,
the bight between Bull Point and the long rocky spine that
runs out towards the Morte Stone.
After so many miles of coast with nothing but small
coves, this Rockham Bay seems quite large — it is a mile and
a half across. 'As its name would imply, the foreshore is
mostly rock, but a strip of sand has been washed up at the
deepest part, which, where the cliffs are lowest, may be
approached by a cart track over which the sand and seaweed
are hauled for dressing the farms above. At the back the
country is rugged and broken, for, although the combes
between the ridges are cultivated, the ridges themselves lie
bare, or are at the best covered with furze. But the lines are
bold, and, when viewed from the sea, the whole district
about Morte Point has a mountainous look, though the
mountains are, of course, but miniature.
As we approach the heathery slopes of Morte Point, a
combe deeper and more fertile looking than its fellows
opens to view, and the house tops of Mortehoe are seen
over the high ground above. A path winds upwards above
the meadows, and we presently find ourselves once more
upon a road and in the outskirts of the village.
The village stands at the base of the point, grouping
picturesquely about the church, which, with its lych-gate,
is raised a little above the street. It has rather a weather-
beaten appearance this village, which, considering its
position, is not surprising, for both east and west winds
batter it, and it is frequently drenched with the fog
no Mortehoe.
masses of the Atlantic. But the air is pure and bracing,
and people are beginning to discover that there are
worse places than " Morte," as the natives call it, for a
holiday.
The grim meaning of Mortehoe at once stamps the nature
of the adjacent coast. It means the Hill of Death,* just as the
Morte Stone, the dangerous rock off the extremity of the
point, is the Stone or Rock of Death. According to West-
cote, no man may move this rock unless he be master of his
wife, which shows that Westcote, or, rather, popular tradition,
recognises very unmistakably the power of the so-called
" weaker vessel." Many, he goes on to say, have tried it,
but without success, and it is thought that the feat will be
performed by a stranger, though why a stranger should be
more " master of his wife " than an Englishman it is
difficult to explain. He slily adds that some think a
Russian would do, as they so habitually beat their wives
that the latter do not consider themselves beloved unless
chastised at least once a month ! In connection with this
remarkable feature in the domestic life of Russia, he relates
the story of a Moscow goldsmith, who, being by birth a
German, was not acquainted with this Tartaric (not to say
barbaric) custom. The neglected wife twice sent him word
that unless he beat her she would neither love him nor
provide him with food. Whether this threat appealed to
the heart or the stomach Westcote does not tell us, but the
German rose to the occasion and cudgelled her so soundlv
that she gave him an excellent dinner.
Verily the saying —
A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree,
The more you beat them the better they be —
must be of Russian origin. Yet do I doubt that any
Muscovite will move the Morte Stone.
* Tugwell says : "Mart death, and hoe a projecting point of land."
M
Morte Point. 1 1 1
It is a pity that there should be another version of the
legend, and one diametrically opposed to that recorded by
Westcote. For it is said that the rock can only be moved
by a number of ladies, all of whom can rule their husbands.
" If the story were true," writes another and more modern
chronicler, " possibly the Morte Stone need not long remain
a terror to mariners."* Evidently this writer believes that
the grey mare is the better horse.
Standing on the summit of one of the rough knolls, a
strange wild scene lies below. Right down the centre of
the promontory a jagged spine of slate rock runs brokenly
to a sharp point almost level with the waves. On either
hand the ground falls steep to the bays of Rockham and
Woolacombe, the eastern side dark with heather, the
western covered with turf and brakes of fern. Off the point
a swift " race " rushes with the speed of a millstream, and,
when the wind is against the tide, the sea between the land
and the Morte Stone is a veritable Devil's cauldron. And so
Morte Point, as might be expected, is held in but ill repute
by the dwellers in Morte village. " It is the place," say
they, " which God made last and the Devil will take first."
But the view from the Warren, the high ground at the
landward end, is splendid. Here, at last, we have, almost
uninterrupted, the rollers of the Atlantic, which swing
slowly into the bay between the natural breakwater of
Lundy and the blue precipices of Hartland. Below is the
shining stretch of Woolacombe Sands, the finest beach
in North Devon, bounded to the southward by the long
cape called Baggy Point. The sea, of a deep green-blue,
is dotted to-day with the sails of the " Bar Fleet " — the
coasters of Bideford and Barnstaple — while in the distance
* Tugwell, who says that there is some doubt whether the saying does not
Taelong to a menhir on the high ground near Bull Point. This menhir I
have never seen, nor, as far as I can gather, is its existence known in the
neighbourhood.
ii2 Morty Well.
a full-rigged ship, with all sail set, glides peacefully up
channel, despising the offers of the tug that hovers restlessly
in her wake.
There is said to be a cromlech on Morte Point. About a
hundred yards from the brow of the Warren, immediately
beneath one of the tors that crop up continually along the
ridge, lies a large slab nine feet long, six feet wide, and two
and a half thick. It rests on two other rocks, neither more
than a foot in height, and of very irregular shape. To me
the whole affair appears to be natural, the slab having slid
down from the rock a few feet above and being arrested in
its fall by rocks that had probably fallen in the same manner
previously. And the " strike " of the rocks here would
make such an occurrence quite likely. For they distinctly
incline in a north-easterly direction, so that, in case of a
fracture caused by weathering, they would fall to the right
instead of to the left. Indeed, had the " cromlech " been on
the Woolacombe side instead of on that facing Rockham
Bay, it would have struck me at once as being the
work of man. Another thing which militates against
the " cromlech " idea is the extraordinary position in which
the stones are found. Who ever heard of a monument of
this description being placed just under an overhanging
summit.
A hundred feet down the slope, in a direct line with the
" cromlech," is a spring known as " Morty Well," the water
of which was formerly (and is still, perhaps, to a certain
extent) regarded with favour as beneficial to weak eyes.
Whether the water actually has some strengthening
properties, or whether its efficacy is pure fancy, I do not
know. Superstition, however, is not yet dead at Morte.
Witness the reason given for the loss of the Leamington.
The crew numbered thirteen — so what could you expect ?
A building low and dark is the church of Mortehoe. It
is said to have been founded in 1157, an(^ the chancel may
The Tracey Monument. 113
be of about that date, as well as the rude Early English
arches — if such they are — of the nave. The tower, or,
at any rate, the lower part of it, seems to be Norman,
for the door leading into it, as well as the north and south
doors, are round headed. The church is rich in bench
ends, and, as the old lady who showed us over (a remarkably
intelligent specimen of her class) remarked, " no two
are alike." Here will be found the symbols of the Passion
carved on shields — the nails, the spear, the hammer, the
ladder for the descent, the garment, the thirty pieces of
silver, besides divers grotesque animals, heads, and mono-
grams.
In a chapel on the south is a monument that till lately
was universally regarded as the tomb of the Tracey who
assisted at the murder of that ambitious saint Thomas a
Becket. We will discuss this point presently, merely
premising that, as the figure incised on the top holds a
chalice and is robed in priestly garb, the presumption that
it is also the tomb of an assassin is one open to very grave
doubt.
The figure is supposed to represent William de Tracey,
Rector of Mortehoe, who founded a chantry chapel in the
church dedicated to St. Margaret and St. Catherine,
and served by its own priest. He died in 1322. Around
the edge of the slab runs, or ran — for some of it is illegible —
the words " Syr Wiliame de Tracey git ici, Deu del alme
eyt mercy" — that is " Sir William de Tracey lies here, God
on his soul have mercy. "* On the north side of the tomb
are carved the figures of the saints to whom the chantry was
dedicated, together with three shields, one of them bearing
the Tracey arms. The south side is ornamented with
window tracery of the early Decorated period ; on the west
is a representation of the Crucifixion between the figures
of the Virgin and St. John. The east side is plain.
* Oliver's " Monasticon Dioc. Exon."
I
H4 The Tracey Monument.
There are all sorts of theories afloat about this monument.
Some, indeed, say that it is not a tomb at all, but the altar
of the chantry. These account for the presence of the
incised figure by saying that the slab, though apparently of
earlier date and certainly of different stone, was used for a
top to the altar. Others have thought that the monument
was not only a tomb, but a double tomb containing the
bodies of the murderer as well as of his descendant the
priest. There is an absurd tradition to the effect that the
figures of SS. Margaret and Catherine represent the wife
and daughter of the knight, and that by the latter he was
nourished for a fortnight, when, immediately after the
murder, he fled to Crookhorn Caves near Ilfracombe.
There is some reason, at any rate, for supposing that
he did return to these North Devon wilds, for the Traceys
were Barons of Barnstaple, and lords of the adjacent
manor of Wollocombe — now Woolacombe. But after the
murder nothing prospered with them.
All the Traceys
Have the wind in their faces
soon became a common saying, originating in the unsuccess-
ful attempts made by the murderer to reach the Holy Land,
there to expiate his crime. It is said that time after time
he was driven back by contrary winds, and finally died at
Costanza in Italy.
What makes the whole matter more puzzling is that the
slab seems to date from the twelfth century (when Becket
was murdered) and the sides of the tomb, altar, or whatever
it was, from the fourteenth, and therefore the figure can
hardly be that of Sir William de Tracey,* the founder of
the chantry. But if the figure is that of the knight, how
comes it that he is robed as a priest ? There is a legend
that Sir William de Tracey — for the knight had the same
* The title does not help us, as priests were called Sir (Dominus) late
into the sixteenth century.
Sir William de Tracey. 115
name as1 the priest — returned from his exile and became a
priest. Yet it seems improbable that a murderer, however
penitent, could ever have been received into Holy Orders,
and this has given rise to the idea that the inscription
belongs to the knight and the figure to the priest — in short,
over this monument surmise has run riot. An examination
of the tomb when the church was restored in 1857 failed to
clear up the mystery, for no bodies or traces of bodies were
discovered. Indeed, the tomb appears to have been violated
long before, for Risdon speaks of persons who had taken
the lead wherein the dead was wrapped, and states that they
never prospered after. Altogether, though the odds, are
against the monument being the tomb of an assassin, there
is a possibility that the slab (in some other part of the church)
covered his bones, and that the words referred to him and
not to the priest, whose figure was added later. Whether
or not the altar of the chantry was used as a tomb for the
priest who had the chantry built, and the coffin-stone of his
ancestor utilised faute de mteux, one cannot, I fear, determine.
But for myself I like to think of the penitent knight coming
back to the land of his forefathers, and finding a resting
place in this church by the western sea.
A knight and yet a felon,
He stood on the Rock of Death,
And the waves of the wild Atlantic
Were roaring and raging beneath.
The waves of the wild Atlantic
Around him came rolling free,
With the gathered might and the gathered weight
Of a thousand leagues of sea.
From the stormy coast of Labrador,
From the banks of Newfoundland,
The west wind drove the breakers
To break on that desolate strand.
I 2
n6 Sir William de Tracey.
The royal blood of England
Was surging in his veins,
But the mark on his brow was branded
That was set of old upon Cain's.
And the howl of a people's hatred
Followed, where'er he trod.
He had slain a man at the altar,
A priest in the house of God.
So he fled from the crowded city,
From the face of man he fled,
And sought in the western wilderness
A home to lay his head.
Alone on the desolate headland,
Or the barren sands of the bay,
In penance and in fasting
He wore his life away.
And the pitying neighbours laid him
In the stately church he had built
On the heights above the ocean
To purge away his guilt.
A brief and a humble legend
Was carved on a brazen scroll :
" Here lies Sir William Tracy,
God's mercy on his soul." *
* From a poem by A. H. A. H., "Western Antiquary," vol. ix., p. 83.
CHAPTER IX.
BETWEEN MORTE POINT AND BIDEFORD BAR.
Tasteless Architecture — Another Cromlech — Barricane Beach — Woola-
combe — A Brig Ashore — Woolacombe Sands — Georgeham — Croyde —
Croyde Bay — Baggy Point — A Dangerous Cave — Saunton Down —
Saunton Court — A Boulder out of Place — Braunton Burrows — Mouth
of the Torridge and Taw.
EVEN Mortehoe, though two long miles from the railway,
shows signs of growth. One or two large lodging houses
(offcourse quite out of keeping with the surroundings)
oppressively assert themselves, and as we descend the
steep road towards Wollocombe — or Woolacombe, as it is
always, though erroneously, called* — we pass several more,
including a hotel which for sheer ugliness leaves little to
be desired. It is a thousand pities that in this land, of all
lands, a little more taste should not be shown in domestic
architecture. I suppose it would be an interference with
the glorious privilege yclept the " liberty of the subject/'
not to speak of that still more tender point that Bulwer
calls " the breeches pocket," but I would that the plans and
elevations of every builder along this north coast of
Devon could be passed or rejected (I think they would be
generally rejected) by a joint committee of architects and
artists who had an intimate knowledge of the scenery.
Then perhaps we should not get stuccoed hotels perched
on wild hillsides, or ferny combes disfigured by hideous
villas of biscuit-coloured brick. But, asks the British
tax-payer, " who is to pay the piper " ? for of course such
a committee would not give its services voluntarily. Alas !
no — Utopia has not come yet. Let us get on.
* So Mortehoe (or Morthoe) is becoming Mor-thoe — and at its own
railway station. The proper pronunciation is Morte-hoe, and this explains
the name which, Mor-thoe does not.
Ii8 Cromlech. — Barricane.
At the bottom of the hill we reach Twitchen Combe.
Right against the sky line on the southern brow rises a
furzy knoll crowned with a curious pile of rocks that the
Ordnance map calls a " cromlech." The pile certainly does
bear some resemblance to one of these monuments, but, if
the blocks constitute a cromlech at all, it is a very rough
one indeed. Upon two masses of quartz rock rests a cover
stone measuring five feet by three and a half, and about
two feet thick. None of the blocks are shaped, but appear
to have been dug out of the quartz reef or dyke which runs
through the slate, and piled very much in the shape in
which they were quarried. The " cromlech " is very low,
the space between the bottom of the cover stone and the
ground being barely large enough to shelter a sheep. The
ground is rocky — indeed, the " cromlech " stands upon a
ridge of slate, so that it is improbable that a hole was dug
beneath it for purposes of interment. In a field nearly
directly east, about a quarter of a mile over the brow, is a
large block of similar rock about six feet in height, and of
considerable girth. This may have been roughly shaped,
as its appearance is different to that of other rocks in the
vicinity. Perhaps it was a menhir and connected in some
way with the cromlech — from which, however, it is not visible,
nor has it been placed there by human agency, being plainly
a natural mass, exposed, probably, by denudation.
Round Twitchen Combe winds the road, with Morte
Point on our right and a rock-fringed bay below, till a mile
below Morte village it sweeps past the head of a narrow
inlet between the slate reefs, with a floor of what appears
to be grey sand. But sand it is not. If we get down
over the low cliffs to this Barricane Beach we shall find that
the cove is strewn with shells, and shells only, though hardly
one is entire. This is the only beach of its kind in
Devonshire and why the shells should be washed up here
more than elsewhere is a question that no one has yet
Woolacombe. 119
satisfactorily answered. Nor are they all common shells.
Here you will find the bearded nerite, the elephant's tusk,
the wentle trap, and the cylindrical dipper. Here the
lanthina communis, or blue snail, ends its long voyage,
and here drifts ashore Villula limbosa, on which, according
to Mr. Gosse, the lanthina feeds. So Barricane Beach is a
favourite haunt of conchological visitors, and it is a curious
sight to see half a dozen people at once in attitudes the
reverse of dignified searching for specimens.
Of course, such a spot is the very place for the vendors
of refreshments. And, as a consequence, Barricane from
June to October is hopelessly spoilt. Into the little cove
are crowded three or four canvas booths with their attendant
tables set out with terrible-looking shell-fish, cakes, ginger-
beer bottles, and tea cups, while no wayfarer, be he peer or
peasant, can go within a hundred yards of the place without
being beset by women and children, who pester him with
cards of invitation to their tea tables, or worry him to buy
strings of shells. If you want to enjoy Barricane in peace
go there when Ilfracombe is empty. There are many mild,
sunny days in late autumn, even in winter, when the cove
is almost as warm as at Midsummer. There are many days,
too, neither mild nor sunny, but when Barricane Beach is
still more worth visiting — when the north-wester sings
through the grass overhead, and the sea spouts in cataracts
over the sharp pinnacles of slate.
Round the corner is Wollocombe, or, as I suppose I must
call it, Woolacombe. At some railway stations far away
(they are not so foolish as to exhibit it at Mortehoe or
Ilfracombe) you will see a fancy picture of Woolacombe as
it is to be in " the sweet bye and bye," evolved, apparently,
from the inner consciousness of the architect — a wonderful
watering place with hundreds of handsome villas stretching
up the slopes, with pleasure boats crowding the shore, and
even with jetties (I do not think the architect has yet soared
I2O Woolacombe.
to a pier) for the accommodation of the same. At the spot you
will see a hotel, an old farmhouse packed away behind it —
as if the brand-new hotel were ashamed of the poor old
place — a couple of terraces, a handful of villas, and — several
thousand acres of turfy down and wind-swept pasture.
There are, you see, some houses, but as for the jetties
and boats they exist only upon paper. For although
Woolacombe has grown amazingly since I first saw this
wonderful panoramic view some nine years ago — there was
only the farm and one or two cottages then, and perhaps,
though I am not sure, the hotel — no pier or jetty is ever likely
to throw its shadow upon the shining sands, nor any boat
beyond — significant fact — the lifeboat to lie below the long
range of downs. For the seas at Woolacombe are tremendous ;
even in calm weather there is a surf — while in a storm
The riderless horses race to shore
With thundering hoofs and shuddering roar,
Blown manes uncurled.
The man who projects a pier at Woolacombe will do
well to take warning by the fate of the pier at Westward
Ho ! which was, but is not.
For a brand-new watering place Woolacombe is not
unpleasing. Some care has been taken about the style of
architecture, and, in a few years, when Time has mellowed
the red bricks of the terrace facing the sea, the houses with
their tiled roof and balconies will be quite picturesque. The
situation is open and airy, without being cold. For this
latest watering place lies at the mouth of a wide combe
sheltered on the north by the high land of Morte, on the
east by the green downs, while it is open to the moist west
wind, and the southern breezes are obstructed but little by
the promontory of Baggy Point. The drawback is want of
shade. Not a tree, not a shrub breaks the noonday glare,
and, of a still day, Woolacombe is about the most glowing
corner in North Devon. Fortunately, still days are rare.
Woolacombe. 121
There is almost always a breeze off the sea, and to sit and
look at the long glittering line of breakers of itself almost
makes you feel cool, and better bathing it would be difficult
to find.
Woolacombe Sands are haunted by the ghost of De
Tracey, the murderer. He is condemned to the Sisyphus-
like task of making ropes of sand. On stormy nights he
may be heard howling at his work. The manor of
Woolacombe Tracey once belonged to the wretched man's
family, and to this neigbourhood, according to Risdon, he
withdrew himself, and " here he spent the remainder of his
life, and lieth buried in an aisle of this (that is, Morte)
church by him built, under an erected monument with his
portraiture engraven on a grey marble stone." All which,
as we have already shown, is as it may be.
And Woolacombe gave a name to that " ancient and
gentile family " the Wollocombes of Wollocombe. Traces
of one of their manor houses may still be seen by the Upper
Barton. The other was close to the Lower Barton (the
farm behind the hotel), and in these houses the Wollocombes
lived many a year, " if in no great state, yet in great honour
and consideration, intermarrying with all well-born neigh-
bouring houses — the Bassetts of Umberleigh, the Coffins
of Portledge, the Fortescues of Filleigh, and many more."
But they have passed away, " the old family with its retinue
and its honours is gone and well-nigh forgotten." ... So
sings the old poet :
The glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things ;
There is no armour against fate —
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.*
* Rev. George Tugwell. Sermon on behalf of the new church at Wollo-
combe. (C. Seers, Bath.)
122 A Ship Ashore.
Woolacombe does not yet boast a stone church — though
it does a stone chapel. The services are carried on in an
iron church " up the road," dedicated to St. Sabinus, who,
according to tradition, or, may be, according to history, I
know not, was wrecked on the sands below, long before the
Wollocombes themselves were thought of.
Morte Bay — it is gradually getting called Woolacombe
Bay — is a place shunned by sailors. What with tides
and the shallowness of the water inshore, they dread
getting " embayed." Indeed, once aground, there is a
poor chance of ever getting afloat again, and the combing
seas will make short work of any vessel that is not stoutly
built. In February of last year a French brig drove
ashore here in a fog, and was aground for more than a
month before they managed to float her. I remember well
a walk over the cliffs to see the wreck in the frosty starlight
of a March morning. The ground was like iron, and when
we got upon Lee Down it was as much as we could do,
to keep our feet. As we climbed out of Lee, dawn began to
break over the eastern uplands, and lovely indeed was the
effect as the grey-green light touched the hoar frost lying
thick on the undulations that stretched away into the distance.
Slowly the day grew, until, as we passed through Damage
farmyard, the old building stood out dim and shadowy in
the dawn, and the cows came placidly out of their shed,
their breath rising like steam upon the cold air. But it was
not till we reached Morte, nearly two hours from the time of
starting, that objects became sharp and distinct. Here we
met a couple of labourers going to their work, one with a
lighted lantern — although it was broad daylight now — in his
hand. We asked him if he were looking for an honest man.
The rustic gaped vacantly and made no reply, but some
minutes later when we were far up the village he recovered
himself and shouted — " We be all honest volk to Morte,"
and burst into a loud guffaw at his own wit.
Woolacombe Sands. 123
Going down over the hill the scene was impressive. The
bay lay a sheet of glass, heaving ever and anon, as some
roller larger than his fellows passed inward with march
solemn, irresistible. Over Baggy Point hung the moon
desperately fighting the sun, as, inch by inch, he crept
nearer the crest of the hill. A ghastly reflection stretched
across the water, and just within it lay the ugly black form of
a tug straining hard at a cable attached to the stranded
vessel. As we drew nearer we could see the poor old
thing rise slowly to the breakers and then sink heavily back
into the bed she had rolled for herself in the sand. Nearer
still a strange weird sound smote upon our ears — the
groaning of the strained timbers. Have you ever heard the
death groan of a ship ? It is a sad sound, that groan, as if
the helpless vessel were endued with life, and that life were
in agony. We stood by her till the sun flooded the beach
with light, watching her vain efforts for freedom. But the
tide turned, and the tug drew off and vanished in a blur of
smoke round the Morte Stone.
Along the dunes at the foot of the hills the tawny sands
stretch away to Baggy Point in a curve two miles long.
There is good walking all the way, if you keep upon the
damp sand, the dry stuff is poor going. At the Woolacombe
end the little stream that waters the combe spreads itself
over the shore, but is no hindrance, for most of it is
absorbed long before it reaches salt water. At the
southern end we pause and look back. What a long
stretch it seems ! And, beyond a little clump of rocks
close inshore about the middle and a few more near the
white cottages and limekiln near which we are standing, the
expanse is unbroken. Look at the reflections in the wet
sand below Woolacombe ! They are a long way off, but
how plainly you can see the inverted images of the bathing
machines and of the children at their play! But what a
glare ! It scorches the face and burns the eyes until you
124 Georgeham.
are thankful to rest them upon the green of the hills, or
turn to climb the rough lane that leads over the base of
Baggy to the shady villages of Georgeham and Croyde.
It is a typical Devonshire lane of the wilder sort, for,
though too near the sea for branches to meet overhead, it
is barely six feet wide at the bottom, and its banks are full
of wild flowers. This lane branches at the top, the turn to
the left going to Georgeham, that to the right dropping down
the side of the valley to Croyde. Nearly abreast of them,
by passing through a gate on the right, you will find a path
leading out on to Baggy Point. We want to visit all these
places ; it is unfortunate that they lie in different directions.
However, Georgeham lies the most inland, more than a mile,
indeed, from the sea, so we will take that first.
Through the pretty hamlet of Putsborough with its old
thatched house we get into a long lane that winds over the
open country to the village. The land lies high and
exposed, and the trees are few and far between. Away to
the left a grove that shelters the long stone house of
Pickwell is quite a feature in the landscape. On the
western side they have a curiously shaven look, and slant
upwards, as it were, from the ground. This is caused by the
west wind, which often blows with great fury against these
slopes at the back of Morte Bay. Very soon we lose sight
of the sea altogether, and descend gently to Georgeham.
Georgeham — it is pronounced George Ham — fills in the
head of the long valley that winds seaward between the
uplands of Baggy and Saunton Down. It is a large,
rambling place, and, being in a hollow, has plenty of timber.
The church, indeed, as first seen, is almost hidden among
the elms. It stands well on rising ground at the top of
the village, the turret and battlements just clearing the
trees. The architecture is Perpendicular, and the building
has undergone a thorough, and we shall be glad to find,
judicious restoration. In the chancel will be noticed a
Georgeham. 125
handsome stone reredos, representing the Lord's Supper,
and, in a recess on the north side of the altar, a rude and
sadly mutilated relief of the Crucifixion, evidently one of
the oldest things in the church. The marble panels in the
pulpit illustrate the Sermon on the Mount, the preaching of
John the Baptist ; while a scene representing a man
addressing Roman soldiers and savages is probably
commemorative of St. George, to whom the church is
dedicated.
In a chapel raised above the eastern end of the south aisle
is the recumbent figure of a Crusader. This monument is
in an unusually good state of preservation. Angels
support the warrior's head, the crossed feet rest on dogs.
It is said to be the effigy of Sir Mauger St. Aubyn, and to
date from 1293, so the knight must have gone to the Holy
Land with Prince Edward — afterwards Edward the First — on
the last Crusade, a Crusade ever memorable for the self-
devotion of his wife Eleanor, who, at the risk of her life,
sucked the poison from the wound given by the envoy
of the treacherous Emir of Jaffa.
The St. Aubyns were lords of Pickwell in Georgeham
parish. This Sir Mauger seems to have been a man of
great strength and stature, though the monument does not
show him as of unusual height. Yet Risdon speaks of " a
main stone there yet to be seen by him thrown a far
distance " which " witnesseth the one, and the other his
tomb in the church, having thereon his armed proportion
larger than the ordinary stature of man."
Close by is a mural monument of very different order,
and of the surpassing ugliness which usually characterises
monuments erected in the days of the Stuarts. The
painted inscription is too decayed to be legible, but it
appears to be in honour of some member or relative of the
well-known Devonshire family of Chichester. Over it are
half a dozen medallion portraits in low relief.
126 Croyde.
In the churchyard, on the right-hand side as you leave,
is the overgrown and nearly illegible headstone of Simon
and Julia Gould, who lived together seventy-four years,
and died at the age of 100 — a venerable Darby and
Joan indeed. Nor are they the only inhabitants of
Georgeham who touched their " century." Opposite is
another grave (I forget the name), the occupant of which,
according to the headstone, also reached fivescore. On
this same side, right up against the wall of a cottage, are
some old stones thrown aside. Among them is one to the
memory of William Kidman, of H.M.S. Weazel, wrecked off
Baggy Point in February, 1799. This vessel was stationed
at Appledore,and one day, while cruising, struck on a sunken
rock a mile from the point and foundered with all hands.
Close to the path is a stone to one John Hill, a sergeant
in the 4Oth Regiment, " a Waterloo man and through
the Peninsular War." The verse at the end of the epitaph
runs thus :
Nor cannon's roar nor rifle shot
Can wake him in this peaceful spot ;
With faith in Christ and trust in God
The sergeant sleeps beneath this clod.
As for Croyde, it is blest more than most villages here-
abouts, for it enjoys the grateful shade of timber at one
end, and the sea breezes at the other. The upper end of the
village is made up of an irregular street of old-fashioned
whitewashed cottages, some of them thatched, and sweet
with roses and honeysuckle. Tucked in among them is a
pretty little modern church, a chapel-of-ease to Georgeham.
The stream which we have followed in our walk down the
valley from Georgeham ripples along the roadside and,
barring a tin pot, a " chaney " crock, and one or two
other unconsidered trifles, is a very pleasant accessory.
At the corner where you enter the village the inn and
the post-office stand facing one another. The former is
• Croyde Bay. 127
remarkable for " The Landlord's Invitation," a card nailed
on the wall facing the entrance, and bearing the following
legend, which my readers may interpret as best they may :
Here's To Pands Pen
Das Oci Al Hourin
Ha ! R : M : Les Smir ,
Thand Funlet
Fri Ends Hipre :
Ign Be Ju !
Stand Kin
Dan Devils
Peak of No ! Ne !
Who, after reading this, shall say that Devonians lack
originality?
Down by the sea is another hamlet, partly old and partly
new — Croyde Bay. The new part consists of an imposing-
looking coastguard station and a sprinkling of houses —
mostly lodging houses — which lie along the slope at the
base of what one of the villagers calls Baggy " Mountain."
Croyde Bay is patronised by those who do not favour the
racket of Ilfracombe or the glare of Woolacombe. It
certainly is quietest of the quiet. The houses overlook a
line of sandhills that stretch right across the mouth of the
valley (which for the last mile has fallen nearly to a level)
and a short stretch of beach. Over against Baggy Point
which thrusts out a protecting arm to the north is Saunton
Down, a high semi-moorland ridge, and the last headland
for miles. For beyond it begins that extensive tract of
sand dune and beach that does not end till Taw and Torridge
are reached, flowing out towards the broken waters of the
bar.
This Croyde Bay, if we may believe a shadowy legend
that has, so far as I know, no written record at its back,
was one of the landing places of the Norsemen. Their
chieftains, say the legend, were Crida and Putta, the former
of whom gave his name to Croyde, the latter to Putsborough.
128 Baggy Point.
At the back of Baggy Point is a spot to this day known as
Bloody Hills, and here it is supposed the "heathen men"
joined battle with the English.
But a race earlier than that of the Viking has left its
marks in this corner of North Devon. Quantities of flint
cores, celts, and arrow-heads have been turned up about
Baggy Point, and occasionally fragments of ancient pottery;
and it is thought either that the population in those days
must have been considerable, or that a large depot or place
for the manufacture of these primitive implements must
have existed here.
I have said that there is a way of reaching Baggy Point
by turning in through a gate near the top of the lane that
comes up from Woolacombe Sands. But we have passed
this now two miles or more, and it is a much pleasanter
walk by the footpath from Croyde Bay than over the fences
and other impedimenta of the route on the northern side.
The only thing that can be said in favour of that route is
that the scenery is much finer, while the cliffs that face
Woolacombe Sands are double the height of those looking
across Croyde Bay. Still, having traversed both routes,
and my delight being no longer in acrobatics, we will take
our way past the red house of the artist who dwells at the
very end of the scattered line of houses, and follow the
path that skirts the low shelving cliffs towards the extremity
of the headland.
It is a long grassy down, this headland, smooth and free
from rock — very unlike any promontory we have seen
yet. Although it commands a wide view, it is not in itself
very interesting — the interest lies beneath rather than upon
the surface. For Baggy Point is honeycombed with caves.
Two are inaccessible, except from the water, but the one
nearest Croyde Bay, which is fine, and another at the
foot of the zigzag at the extremity may be explored at low
tide. But the one most difficult of access — and therefore
Saunton Down. 129
perhaps, considered the most interesting — is " Baggy
Hole," a long cave or passage at the north-eastern corner.
This extends inland a great distance — in fact, a dog that
was taken into it was next seen at Barnstaple ! — and
should be explored with caution, as candles have been
known to go out, showing the existence of foul air. I
have never met anyone who has penetrated to the end,
though I know more than one who has explored the " hole "
for some distance.
Except in very calm weather, with the wind from the
east or south, the attempt cannot be made, and even then
there is some risk, owing to the sudden, and very often
unaccountable, rising of a ground sea. To get at the
place over the cliffs is almost impossible, though I know
one man who has done it with safety at low water of
spring tides. But he had no time for more than a short
visit before the tide turned, and he had to decamp hurriedly.
Another daring visitor was caught, and spent four dreadful
hours climbing the cliffs, cutting notches in the shale with
his pocket knife !
Returning to Croyde Bay, we cross the stream that
works a channel for itself through the sandhills by a plank,
and skirt the base of Saunton Down. The cliffs here are
mere banks, rising from a foreshore of long reefs that run
some distance seaward. These low cliffs are much worn,
the tide setting strongly across the bay. A wily old fellow
in the neighbourhood noticed that a particularly strong
current deposited drift wood and other flotsam in a certain
cave. He kept his own counsel, and that cave turned out
quite a little storehouse. Here he found divers useful pieces
of wreckage, many a spar and coil of rope, once even
coming across a fine new wheelbarrow but little the worse
for being cast up by the sea.
From the summit of Saunton Down may be seen one of
the finest views in Devon. At least Kingsley says so, and
K
130
Saunton Court.
if he did not know his native country assuredly nobody else
does. It certainly is a fair panorama, whether you look
back over the green fertile vale of Croyde, or forward over
the tawny waste of Braunton Burrows, with its billows of
sand, to the soft greys and purples of the cliffs of Clovelly
and Hartland. And away over the slopes southward, blue
with great patches of bugloss, the estuary of the Torridge
winds inwards between the white houses of Instow and
Appledore to the old town of Bideford, stretching up the
hillside beneath its light pall of smoke, and, further still, to
the woods of Annery, till the green hills beyond melt into
the misty lines of Dartmoor.
Lying "lew" on the southern side is Saunton Court, the
old house mentioned in Blackmore's " Maid of Sker."
Like so many other houses in this western land, it was
once of greater dignity — it is now a farm, a picturesque
gabled building with a round, massive Jacobean archway to
the porch, with thatched outbuildings and linhays mellowed
by Time.
But within, it is commonplace enough ; panelling of dark
oak and overmantel of white plaster, wherein fat cherubs
gambolled among garlands, and strange figures of men — and
sometimes women — stood on each side of the family arms,
have alike disappeared. And the old walled garden is
hardly as prim and neat now as it was three hundred years
ago, when it rang to the laughter of gay cavaliers, while
gallants breathed soft nothings in the ears of damsels in
hoop or farthingale.
Between the old farm and the sea stands the thin line of
houses that calls itself Saunton, though the hamlet really
bearing that name, an ancient place, is half a mile inland
on the dusty Braunton road. Like Woolacombe, Saunton
aims at being a watering place. Whether it ever will
become one seems doubtful. To some people a long
expanse of rush-grown sandhills may have charms — for me,
Saunton. 131
I confess it has none. Of course there is the sea, and a
fine, though exposed, bathing beach ; but one wants a little
more than sea bathing nowadays to make a watering place.
And Saunton has neither the rugged rocks of Mortehoe nor
the bold headland of Baggy to serve as setting to its sandy
waste. Such scenery as there is is too far away, and
one is filled with a "restless, unsatisfied longing" to bring
the lovely coast line away to the westward a dozen miles
nearer. If Westward Ho is tedious, Saunton is positively
doleful, and at low tide on a dull day I can imagine nothing
more melancholy than this infant settlement, with its stony,
unfinished roads and general air of being born before its
time.
There is, however, one object of interest at Saunton. If
instead of crossing Saunton Down we had followed its base
we should have found in a hollow of the raised beach a
large boulder of red granite weighing, it is thought, more
than ten tons. Geologists have puzzled in vain over the
presence of granite — and red granite — here. For, though
'Lundy is of granite, there is no red granite nearer than
Dartmouth, unless we except one or two spots upon
Dartmoor, and here the stone is of a different texture. The
late Mr. Pengelly, F.G.S., suggested that it was floated to
its present position on an iceberg.
As we walk along the firm, level sands towards the
estuary we pass the skeleton of more than one wreck. About
midway, embedded in the sand, are the ribs of a ship that
went ashore so long ago that no one seems to know either
her name or history. Even Charles Kingsley — indefatigable
searcher as he was into all things belonging to his beloved
North Devon — can only say that he believes these timbers
are those of a man-of-war. Further on, close under
Braunton Lighthouse and — strange satire — the lifeboat
house, is the carcase of another poor ship. Outside, the
K 2
132 Braunton Burrows.
bar which lies across the mouth of Taw and Torridge
stretches towards us — that bar which sometimes makes the
passage of the estuary altogether impossible. To-day
The harbour bar is moaning
and heaving in a long, oily swell, over which the brown-
sailed coasters slide easily enough ; but there are times
when the breakers rage over it furiously, and the bar is
from end to end one vortex of seething billows. Then the
coasters must anchor outside, or, if the weather gets worse,
fly for the nearest refuge.
On our left the Burrows rise in lofty hillocks of blown
sand. This is no narrow belt just fringing the shore, but
an expanse nearly a mile wide, sinking in low and yet
lower undulations as it reaches the flat, marshy meadows.
The Burrows are, for the most part, covered with coarse
grass and rushes, and, to the ordinary wayfarer, of no more
interest than any other sandhills.
The botanist, however, thinks differently. To his eye,
Braunton Burrows are almost sacred. For along them
grow plants of some rarity, though why they should be
given names conducive to lockjaw is a thing " difficult
to be understanded of the common people." Scirpus
holoschaenus and Matthiola sinuata may be music to the
plant collector ; it is not so to the rest of the world. Of
other plants with hard names our specimen hunter knows
Epipactis palustris, Erigeron acris, Euphorbia peplus,
the rare Euphorbia Portlandica, Asperugo procumbens,
and Teucrium scordium, while on the marshes are
Chenopodium rubrum and Artemisia maritima, and,
near the lighthouse, Isolepis holoschaznus, or mud
rush.
We breathe once more, and walk onwards to the light-
house— or lighthouses, for there are two — at the southern
extremity of the three-mile long expanse. Between these
St. Ann's. — Estuary of Taw. 133
lighthouses and Braunton, among the sandhills, less than a
hundred years ago there stood the little chapel of St.
Ann, a building measuring only fourteen feet six inches by
twelve. Unfortunately stones were wanted to build a
cowshed ; the ruins were " handy," and — they disappeared.
Until quite recently some remains were still to be traced,
but now even they have vanished, and the chapel is as much
a thing of the past as the village which it served, and which
is said to have been overwhelmed by the sand some time in
the reign of Elizabeth.*
To return to the lighthouses. The} are both very ugly,
and only one is of any height. The smaller is, indeed, a
mere box mounted on a tramroad, on which it is moved to
and fro, according as the bar shifts its position. For the
two lighthouses must be brought into one by vessels making
for the estuary.
It is a fresh, breezy spot this point of yellow sand where
Taw and Torridge meet and pass seaward towards the
white breakers of the bar. At high tide the estuary is
nearly a mile across ; wider still within the horns at the
mouth where the tide has swept out a bay. Beyond are
Northam Burrows and the Pebble Ridge, beyond that again
the foliage-hung cliffs of Clovelly ; still further Hartland
towering high over the meeting of the Bristol Channel with
the Atlantic. Walk round the point and you look up two
rivers — towards Barnstaple at the foot of its green hills ;
towards Bideford seated on the western bank of Torridge
with its long stone bridge — a bridge with a history.
Nearer, Instow and Appledore look at each other across the
flood — the former a staid and rather dull little watering
place, the latter a small but busy port with shipbuilding
yards and dry dock. On the hill behind stands Chanter's
Folly, a look-out tower built by one Chanter whence, he
* " Arch. North Devon."
134 Estuary of Taw.
might watch his ships coming in from sea. The placid
bosom of the river is dotted with shipping — the clumsy but
picturesque coaster, drifting slowly with the tide, the
barque at anchor off Appledore, sand barges from Braunton
Pill and Barnstaple. With ripple, with dancing of sunlit
waves, the joint rivers swing merrily out to sea.
CHAPTER X.
APPLEDORE AND CLOVELLY.
Instow — Appledore — Hubba the Dane — Bloody Corner — Northam —
Burrough — Westward Ho — The Pebble Ridge — Abbotsham — Portledge
— Sir William Coffin and the Priest — Peppercombe — Buck's Mill —
Hobby Drive — Clovelly.
BY walking along the beach to a point near the hospital
ship at the back of the lighthouse we may signal for a boat
to take us across to Instow. Probably it is some time
before the fluttering handkerchief is noticed, but, when it is,
the boatmen will come fast enough, for a passage from the
lighthouse means more pay than that from Instow to
Appledore. As we are rowed across we get a still more
extensive view of the " Barnstaple river" (as the people
call the Taw), and, on approaching Instow, the wooded
slopes of Tapeley Park open out, crowned by the obelisk
erected to the memory of Cornet Cleveland, who fell at
Inkerman. Presently the keel grates on Instow Beach,
and we pass up over the smooth, firm sands to the narrow
fringe of villas that make up the more fashionable part
of Instow.
It is bracing, it is fairly cheap, it has a pretty view and a
long stretch of beach, and it is on a railway — this is all that
can be said for Instow. Though only six miles from Barn-
staple and three from Bideford, it is neither lively nor pic-
turesque. There is no pier, or band, or rocks to scramble on,
or caves to explore, or — anything ; except perhaps a little
boating when the tide is in. But generally the tide is out, and
136 Instow.
the Torridge at low water is not inviting. In fact, you could
not go very far without grounding upon a sand bank, or
having to pull your arms out against a current which would
take you out to the bar in no time. The church is far away
on the hillside at the back among the cottages of the
original village, for Instow is mostly of modern date, and is
even now sometimes distinguished from the older settle-
ment by the name of Instow Quay. The name, by the
way, is a corruption of Johnstow — it is called Johannestow
in Domesday.
The quay, a small affair of seaweed -hung masonry,
projects half the day into the mud of the foreshore, for
Torridge when the tide leaves it is but a narrow streak,
and the water only laps the quay wall for a couple of hours
at most. It is not a bad place, though, for a quiet half-hour
and a yarn with the ancient mariner, and up stream there
is always the pleasant view of Bideford and Annery
Woods. I should like to visit Bideford again ; but, although
a port, it is certainly not a coast town, being a long four
miles in from the sea. Besides, we have been there
before.*
Instow is the only port having regular communication
with Lundy Island. Off the quay lies the Gannef, a cutter
commanded by one Captain Dark, and once a week in
summer, and when she can in winter, she takes Her
Majesty's mails, and any of Her Majesty's subjects that
wish to go, to Lundy. We are almost tempted to cross over
to-day, for the wind is fair and the sea smooth, and Lundy
in fine weather has more charms than the world in general
wots of. But we must finish with the mainland — at least
this part of it — first.
Taking one of the ferry boats that lie waiting on the
beach we cross to Appledore. As the boat draws near the
end of our short voyage of half a mile or so we notice some-
* " Rivers of Devon."
Appledore. 137
thing of stir and bustle. Appledore, indeed, for so small a
place, has a fair shipbuilding and ship-repairing trade, and
dry dock accommodation for vessels of considerable burthen.
Craft in all stages of repair and disrepair, and almost of
every build, lie along the quay, or are moored up the river,
and the sound of mallet and hammer comes merrily across
the flood.
Merrily, too, come the voices of children, who at low tide
make the gravelly beach beneath the quays their playground.
There are legions of them, sunburnt, ragged little creatures,
paddling in the waveless water or scrambling about the
cables and chains of the vessels. Above, their fathers and
brothers, home from sea, " a-looking out for a job," sprawl
upon the " dolphins," as the great iron mooring posts are
called, or prop themselves against the wall, pipes in mouths,
hands in pockets, loafing as only sailors can. For back-
ground the white and grey and buff-coloured houses climb
the hillside towards the elm trees above.
I often wonder how the sailor out of work manages to
exist — and not only how he manages to exist, but how he
contrives to kill time. You never see a sailor taking a
country walk, you seldom see him walking at all. His
one idea of getting through the day seems to be loafing.
At that art he is past master. As to earning money by
an off job, he is never very anxious, it seems to me, to take
up anything unless the work is small and the pay liberal.
Nor, even if no work be involved, will he always shake off
his lethargy, preferring rather to go without pay than to
take the least trouble. Here is a case in point. The port
is not Appledore — never mind where it is lest the loafers
grow ashamed. " Come fishing with me some night down
Channel?" said an acquaintance. "When?" I asked.
" Oh, whenever the boats are going." I inquired what the
charge would be, and was told five shillings apiece. This
seemed pretty well for sitting in a boat that would be going
138 Appledore.
under any circumstances, so I inquired whether the fish
we caught belonged to us. " Oh, dear, no ; " he said " all
we get is one fish each, which we can choose." I shrugged
my shoulders, but agreed to go. But as we parted he
remarked, " I ought, perhaps, to tell you that there is a
chance of their not coming up to let us know when they
are going." "Why not?" I asked; "don't they care to
earn ten shillings for a couple of fish ? " He laughed.
" They are too lazy to take the trouble to walk so far," he
replied. " So far" was about six furlongs in the one case,
and four in the other !
Appledore is divided, though the division is not very
marked, into two parts, East and West Appledore. Of
these, West Appledore is the oldest, though the whole town
looks as if it had been built some time back in the Middle
Ages. The streets are winding and narrow — so narrow,
indeed, that in some you can almost shake hands with your
neighbour opposite. Plate glass is practically unknown ;
the windows are filled with small panes, and the rooms
within look dim and shadowy, the little light that filters
through them being further reduced by a small forest of
geranium and calceolaria. The pavements — when there
are any — are mere sidewalks, and the roadways are pitched
with pebbles. There is not much vehicular traffic through
most of them, which is fortunate, as carts can seldom pass
one another.
Yet the town, as a town, cannot boast of any great
antiquity, though a hamlet was known to the Saxons as
Apultroe, and it is called Apledore in Domesday Book. It
then belonged to the powerful family of De Bruer, who
held considerable estates at Buckland Brewer, as it is now
called, and other places in North Devon. Even when Leland
wrote, " Appledore village on the further Ripe of Budeford
haven " was " a small thing," though whether he refers to
the insignificance of the place or the haven " at the ebbe of
Hubblestone. 139
water " is not quite clear. It was not till the spacious
days of Elizabeth that Appledore came into prominence.
So fast did the trade with Virginia increase that Bideford
could not cope with it, and so, owing to its position nearer
the sea and the greater depth of water, the larger vessels
weut to Appledore. But even then it was far from
populous. For, half a century after the Armada, a Devon-
shire historian writes that the parish of Northam (in which
Appledore lies) had lately grown populous, and that " in
the memory of man at a place called Appledore at the
confluence of the Taw and Torridge, where the ships com-
monly stop and lie safe on shore when the tide is out,
stood but two poor houses." But having made a start it
must have grown very rapidly, for " now," continues West-
cote, " for multiplicity of inhabitants and houses it doth
equal many market towns, and is provided with many good
and skilful mariners."
On the foreshore, a little to the south of the town, is a
long flat rock, locally known as the Hubblestone or
Wibblestone. The name is said to be a corruption of
Hubba Stone, and the rock to mark the spot where, in the
reign of King Alfred,* the Danish chieftain Hubba was
slain and subsequently buried under a cairn of stones now
washed away or removed.
With a fleet of twenty-three ships Hubba sailed up
the Torridge and landed, it is thought, near Appledore.
But for once the Danes met their match. Odun, Earl of
Devon, who had fortified himself in the earthwork of
Kenwith Castle, issued forth, and, after a hard battle,
drove them back from the high ground near Northam
with the loss of twelve hundred men and their magic
standard Reafan. Faint traces of this "castle" may still
be seen on Hennaborough, a hill about a mile and a
* The date is variously given as 874, 892, and 894. " The Anglo-Saxon
Chronicle " (Bohn) says 878.
1 40 Bloody Corner.
half west of Bideford, and a turn on the road to Northam
called Bloody Corner is the spot where they are supposed to
have made their last stand against the victorious English.
This spot, having climbed out of Appledore, we presently
reach. It is marked by a slab of slate set in the hedge,
just where the hill ascends towards Northam. At the top
are cut the words " Bloody Corner." Below are armorial
bearings, the shield bearing an anchor over an arm holding
a firebrand, the crest a lion grasping an anchor. The
motto is mutilated, the only word remaining being Fideli.
Beneath are the words " Chappell's Crest " and the
following verse :
Stop ! stranger stop !
Near this spot
Lies buried
King Hubba the Dane
Who was slain by King Alfred the Great
In a bloody retreat.
A.D. DCCCLXXXXII.
Saxon Chronicle
(Chappell's Record).
The appearance of the stone is fresh and new, but from
the style of the language it is evidently a replica of an
older one cut perhaps (as the stone bears his arms) at
the cost of Chappell the antiquary. It can hardly be said
that the poet excelled himself on this occasion; but,
perhaps, his history is better than his rhyme.
This road to Northam Town runs over high ground, and
commands wide views over the estuary, over pasture land
sloping seaward, and over the Northam Burrows, a tract not
far short of a thousand acres in extent, tossed into knolls
and undulations, covered with turf and gorse, and here and
there not wholly innocent of marsh and bog. This waste
stretches away to Westward Ho (which we can see along
the hillside in the distance), the latter part being the
celebrated golf links, after Musselburgh and St. Andrews
Northam. 141
the best in the kingdom. These burrows and links are
protected from the sea by that remarkable natural rampart
of rolled boulders called the Pebble Ridge — of which more
presently.
Soon we enter Northam, an ancient but diminutive town,
with a church whose " tall wind-swept tower watches for
a beacon far and wide over land and sea." Under its
shadow were laid to rest the bones of Salvation Yeo,
faithful henchman to Amyas Leigh. " Perhaps," thought
Amyas, " the old man might like to look at the sea, and
see the ships come in and out across the harbour bar, and
hear the wind on winter nights roar through the belfry
above his head." Save for its connection with Kingsley's
greatest romance there is little of interest about the
church, or, indeed, about the village-town, except an old
dwelling, probably once a priest's house, near the church-
yard gate. Most people will think more of the rough park
close by to the left of the Bideford road, where, till only
the other day, stood Burrough, the home of Amyas himself.
I am treating Elizabeth's Viking, you see, as a reality ; his
actual existence I cannot prove. But what matter ?
Kingsley has made him real enough, so let us be content.
Well, then, Amyas' home — its picture lies now before
me — was a low gabled house with projecting eaves and
chimneys of many shapes and sizes. The picture shows it
as separated from the park by a ha-ha, over the closely
shaven top of which appear the golden heads of
sunflowers. Alas ! it has gone, leaving not a wrack
behind, save a bit of timber here and there built into the
walls of the new house, or rather pair of houses that have
arisen on its site. I suppose it was necessary that it should
come down. Still, one heaves a regretful sigh, for
Burrough was not only the fictitious home of a fictitious
hero, but the real one of a real hero — Stephen Burrough.
Stephen Burrough was born in 1525, and commanded the
142 Burrough.
Edward Bonaventure, the largest of the little fleet that
sailed with brave Sir Hugh Willoughby to the Arctic seas.
This expedition owed its success to Burrough and Chancellor,
"pilot major," who, when others would have turned back,
kept onward, and, rounding the great headland named by
them the North Cape, entered the White Sea. Like the
" Ancient Mariner" in latitudes more southern, they
Were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
But this alone did not satisfy Burrough's daring spirit.
Bent on discovering that waterway of romance, the North-
West passage to India, he set out in a tiny vessel drawing
only four feet of water, and in this cockleshell reached the
Kara Sea, establishing a high latitude record which even
we superior moderns (as we think ourselves) have but
recently beaten.* He was rewarded by being made Chief
Pilot of England and one of the four Masters of the Navy.
The view from the park — that park where Mistress Leigh
used to walk and pray for her sons as she watched the sails
on the horizon out towards Lundy — is very beautiful.
Trees are in the foreground, but not planted so thickly or
in such a position that the panorama is hidden. For
riverwards the ground falls away and " beneath," — once
more to quote Kingsley, "beneath, the Torridge like a
land-locked lake sleeps broad and bright, between the old
Park of Tapeley and the charmed rock of Hubbastone."
A mile from Northam, down towards the sea, is
Westward Ho, another new watering place, that owes its
fame as well as its name to Kingsley. It consists of one
or two terraces, a fair sprinkling of villas, a big college for
boys, and a hotel or two, yet is withal, as a writer in the
Graphic says, " a tedious place, that no one would visit, had
they anywhere better to go to." In fact, were it not for
that rare thing in Devonshire, bracing air, bathing (when
* " Kingsley's Country," p. 59.
Westward Ho. — Pebble Ridge. 143
the Atlantic will let them), the delights of golf, and the
educational advantages, probably Westward Ho would have
turned out a failure. As it is, it is decidedly dull, for
although I suppose we all like pure air, we do not all play
golf or need the benefits of education. Still, if you like a
quiet life or " if" — to alter the name in the famous saying of
Charles Dickens — " you have a grudge against any insurance
company, go and live at Westward Ho, and draw your
dividends until they ask in despair whether your name is
Old Parr or Methuselah."
It only has one lion — if lion it can be called — the Pebble
Ridge, alias the Pobble Ridge. This ocean barrier
stretches from the estuary a length of two miles westward.
It runs as straight as a line until the corner is reached
where the rivers enter the sea, and then bends inwards.
The pebbles vary in size from a diameter of nearly a yard
to less than an inch, growing smaller and smaller towards
the seaward face of the ridge, which is higher than the
landward side, though scarcely looking the twenty feet
of the guide books. It is indeed decreasing in height as it
increases in breadth, and several times the sea has washed
right over it, scattering the stones over the golf links,
flooding the clubhouse, and even knocking down a house
at the end of a terrace. There is no doubt that the ridge
is moving landward, and it is said that people still living
can remember when what is now sand, covered at every
high tide, was pasture land, and out to sea, beneath the
sand, are the remains of a forest. These remains, which
are not unfrequently laid bare by the tide, consist
of portions of trees, the shells of land creatures, the
bones of deer, flint flakes, and weapons of prehistoric
man.
The grazing rights over Northam Burrows belong to the
inhabitants of Northam parish, and in former times these
* " Kingsley's Country."
144 Pebble Ridge.
" Potwallopers," as they were called, used to restore the
scattered boulders and pebbles to the ridge.* This custom,
however, has been discontinued, and possibly the neglect
has been, to a certain extent, the cause of encroachment on
the part of the ridge. The action of the " Potwallopers,"
however, can only have kept out the sea to a very limited
extent; the Atlantic must have laughed at them, as it did
at Mrs. Partington and her broom, and as it laughed at the
Westward Ho Pier. Still, joking apart, if the ridge ever
does become appreciably smaller, the burrows and links
must be submerged at high spring tides, Indeed, there are
plenty of salt water holes and ditches there now ; and
Goosey Pool, a large pond in the links, is, I think, brackish.
And then woe to the lower parts of Westward Ho.
The ridge is of course an object of great interest to the
geologist. One of them, the late Mr. Pengelly, has written
a very able article on the subject, in which he tells us that
the pebbles came from the cliffs between the Burrows and
Hartland, and that they are of carboniferous grit. As beds
of the cliffs are washed out by the waves, the rocks fall in
angular masses, which, as they are rolled about by the tide
and ground against one another, become perfect ellipsoids.
In various stages of development they fringe the shore from
Hartland Point to the estuary. " The low-lying extensive
plain, unlike a precipitous cliff, sets no limit to the distance
to which the breakers may fling them up. Accordingly,
very many are cast beyond the grasp of the retreating
wave, and hence the ridge. "f
A confirmation of this view (did it need confirmation) is
found in the curious experience of a Clovelly fisherman.
* Potwallopers, before the passing of the Reform Bill, were those who
claimed a vote because they had boiled their own pot in the parish for six
months (Saxon -weallan to boil; Dutch opviallen). "Brewer's Dictionary
of Phrase and Fable."
f "Trans. Dev. Assoc.," vol. ii., p. 420.
Pebble Ridge. 145
He was in the habit of mooring his boat to an iron spike
inserted in a boulder. One day after a heavy storm this
boulder was missing. Long after, it turned up on the
Pebble Ridge.*
Many suppose that the ridge is answerable for the
destruction of the submerged forest ; that it advanced upon
it, battered it down, and triumphantly moved inland over
its ruins. But Mr. Pengelly attributes the submergence to
subsidence of land. For, notwithstanding the relics of
primitive man, the vegetable species are all of recent date,
and similar to the trees and plants on the land beyond the
Burrows.
Speaking of subsidence, the whole bay seems to have
been subjected to depression or upheaval. There is the
raised beach at the northern end of Braunton Burrows and
round Saunton Down. Then there is the vanished forest
whence St. Brannock drew the oak for Braunton Church,
the one in front of us here, and, lastly, the low cliff at the
end of the ridge shows two more raised beaches. " The
forest and the beaches indicate that there have been two
distinct movements of the coast — a subsidence and an
upheaval. It seems probable that the elevation preceded
the depression, but this is not quite certain. Both changes
must have occurred within the Recent or Tertiary period."
So says a writer in Murray.
But enough of geology. Enough, too, of Westward Ho.
Let us get away from this grilling bank of pebbles and
turn our aching eyes inland. There is nothing very
interesting about the cliffs for a mile or two, so we will
make a little detour and pay a visit to Abbotsham.
According to Westward Ho's estimate, Abbotsham is
only a mile and a half away. According to that of the
average man it is nearer three. And when you get there
there is nothing to eat at the miserable little public-house
* " Kingsley's Country," p. 55-
L
146 Abbotsham.
— a public-house presided over by an ancient dame who
appears to think a tourist smaller than her own very small
beer. However, let us not revile. Abbotsham is a pretty
village, and, unless you arrive fasting, you will not regret
going a little out of your way to visit it.
The village is scattered over the side of a hill that rises
above a well-timbered valley. It is a small place, and, at
first sight, hardly seems to need more than the smallest of
churches. But the parish (like most in North Devon) is
very scattered, and there are many farms lying away
towards the cliffs and hidden in the folds of the green
hills. So, if all came to worship who ought, I do not think
that Abbotsham Church would have many empty seats
after all.
It stands in a prominent position with fine trees about it
and a pleasant view across the valley from the brow behind.
It is the prettiest church between the Torridge and
Hartland, and one of the oldest. The shape is cruciform,
the architecture Early English with a massive tower. And
the font is Norman. There are very fine bench ends, one — in
the nave — is carved with a representation of the Crucifixion,
and another, directly opposite, has the figure of a bishop.
Others, again, show emblems of the Passion, while one or
two are grotesque, notably one of a nude man with his
head between his legs, and a figure with a sheep's head
chained to a log. The roof, though of the usual waggon
kind, is less heavy than usual, and the ribs rise from figures
of carved oak holding painted shields.
From Abbotsham an uphill lane leads to a farm on high
ground whence the sea once more comes in sight. A cart
track, passing through the barton, wanders out on to a
furze-clad common, falling rapidly to the cliffs. On the
western side it slopes to a brook nearly hidden in thickets,
dropping down a deep gully to the beach. Crossing this
we keep up the opposite steep, and come out upon broken
For Hedge. 147
declivities rather than cliffs, sinking now and again into
rough terraces or undercliff mantled with undergrowth,
The beautiful curve of the coast westward is seen to
perfection — in fact, the whole great bay is before us
from Baggy to Hartland, Clovelly, on the wooded
precipice, looking a mere streak of white. But it is
a silent land. All the farms are " in over," and the
only sound is the raking of the sea dragging back the
pebbles.
This same raking, however musical it may be in daylight,
is mightily unpleasant after dark. I have anything but
joyful recollections of a night spent in the little inn on the
quay at Clovelly. My room overlooked the sea, and all
night long the waves and the pebbles between them kept
up a perfect Pandemonium. When I dropped asleep about
three in the morning it was only to dream of express trains
roaring past.
And now the roof of Portledge House, the seat of the
Pine-Coffins, appears among the trees up the valley. There
were Coffins there in the days of Elizabeth, as any reader
of '• Westward Ho ! " will remember. Coffin, though a good
and ancient, is hardly a pretty name, and the prefix is
scarcely calculated to draw attention from the object with
which the word must inevitably be associated. Whilst
writing this I am reminded of a good story in connection
with the name. I once knew a man called Wood, manager
for the firm of Coffin and Company, large coal exporters.
Into his office there came one day a dear old gentleman,
who, mistaking him for a member of the firm, said politely,
" Mr. Coffin, I presume ? "
" No, sir," was the reply ; " the raw material."
And oddly enough it was Coffin, Sir William "of that
ilk," Master of the Horse at the Coronation of poor Anne
Boleyn, who was the means of introducing a scale of burial
fees. The story goes that as he was passing Bideford
L 2
148 For Hedge.
Church he came upon an excited crowd. " How now ? "
said the knight; "wherefore this rabble?" And he was
told that the priest refused to bury a poor man unless paid
with his cow, the principal article of value which he
possessed. Sir William ordered the priest to bury the
corpse forthwith, but the priest defied him. So the irate
knight cast him into the empty grave, and bade the trembling
sexton shovel in the earth. The priest endured it till the
mould had nearly covered him, when he gave in and the
corpse was buried.
But the priest complained to the Bishop, and Sir William
was summoned before Parliament to answer for this insult
to the Church. Nothing daunted, he came, and not only
obtained his acquittal, but an Act regulating the fees
chargeable to the poor.
Portledge House dates a long way back into the past.
The main fabric is Elizabethan, but there was an earlier
mansion than this ; and some of the house saw the
fourteenth century, or a period even earlier. The hall
is octagonal ; there is an ancient corridor called the
Long Gallery, and a good deal of old carved oak,
though the Minstrel Gallery has disappeared. But if
it has left the house it has not left the family, for, in
the shape of a pew, the Coffins sit in it on Sunday in
Alwington Church.
The brook which comes down the valley is crossed by'a
dam near the beach, and forms a picturesque pool. Past
it, a private path leads to Peppercombe, a dell sloping
steep to the shingle, with a cluster of thatched cottages
sheltering beneath the western hill. Beyond this the cliffs are
not only closed to the public, but to all appearance pathless,
and a choice must be made between the beach — a terribly
rough walk — and the high road which runs along the hill
top far above. Having some knowledge of the beach we
choose the road.
Pepper combe. — Buck 's Mills. 149
The lane is steep, but it ends at last, and we reach the
dusty highway, the main artery of this out-of-the-way
corner of Devon, and the coast road to Clovelly and
Hartland. It is not a particularly interesting road, but
now and again through some break in the cliffs there is
a peep of the coast or of blue sea framed in by the trees.
Two or three miles of it, however, are quite enough, and
we are glad when, having passed through the hamlets
of Horns Cross and Hoops, we reach Buck's Cross,
whence a lane winds down a deep combe to Buck's Mills.
On the way a little church is passed with quaint half-
slated steeple set under the wooded hill, and then, turning
a corner, there is another and a deeper combe — furze
upon one side, timber upon the other, with the blue sea
at the bottom. Here nestles the straggling hamlet of
Buck's Mills.
A rocky stream runs down the glen beside the road
fringed with lowly whitewashed cottages all the way to
the limekilns on the beach. A short distance down the
valley a leat is taken from the stream to supply the mill at
the lower end of the hamlet. This mill gives its name to
the village. The first word ''Bucks" is a corruption of Bokish
(some of the maps still spell it Buckish), but the meaning
of the name I know not — possibly it is the name of some
ancient miller.
The villagers are fishermen, and have the reputation of
keeping themselves rather apart from their neighbours. They
are said even to be unlike the folk of the villages adjacent in
speech and complexion, and, according to local tradition,
have, like the people of Beer in South Devon, a strong
strain of Spanish blood in their veins. And for the same
reason, for it is said that their forbears were shipwrecked
Spaniards.
From Buck's Mills to some distance beyond Clovelly
stretches a long line of wooded cliff. A hundred feet or so
150
The Hobby Drive.
above the sea begins a belt of woodland that rises with
magnificent sweep almost to the sky line.
The lifted arms of oak and ash
Reach half-way up the bowery crest,
And dip their fingers in the flash
And glory of the painted west.
But it is not one great slope. Every half mile at least
there is a fold, and a combe cleaves the woodland, down
which the stream that has been so many ages hollowing it
out rushes to its fatal plunge over the cliffs. Here are ferns
and moss for ever green and fresh beneath the dense
foliage ; here are hyacinth and primrose and violet and
foxglove and wild flowers of every kind. Here and there
through the branches are delicious gleams of sea and sky,
of the misty hills of Wales, and of the dark wall of Lundy.
To these height- we ascend by a rugged path. Below
lies the little hamlet, the pale blue smoke curling against
the steep sides of the combe. Eastward, the eye wanders
back over the cliffs of Portledge, and round the sweep of
the bay to Saunton Down, a dark background for the white
pillar of the lighthouse. Westward the coast ends in
Gallantry Bower, that perpendicular cliff beyond Clovelly
that shuts out the line of bleak, wild precipice about the
"promontory of Hercules" — Hartland Point.
But not yet do we reach the woodland. The way lies at
first through rough fields and brakes, past thatched linhays
and outlying farm buildings. It- is not without an hour's
hard labour that we get well in among the trees, and reach
the Hobby Drive, which deserves a prettier name than that
to which it is obliged to own from the fact that it was the
hobby of its projector, Sir J. H. Williams. This Hobby
Drive is a fine carriage road, winding along the face of the
hills, or turning inland to avoid the recesses of some combe.
Once among these wooded slopes, these shadowy glens, we
begin to appreciate the character of the scenery ; from a
CLOVELLY STREET.
Clovelly. 1 5 1
distance one cannot guess what lovely bits of hill and dale
are hidden away beneath the great masses of foliage.
Yet all the while the Drive keeps level or nearly so. And
there is some three miles of it before, from an elbow where
the road approaches the edge of the cliff, we catch sight of
that human staircase — Clovelly.
There it lies, its white cottages rising tier above tier in
the " cleeve," or cleft in the cliff, to which etymologists say
it owes its name, its little stone pier stretching into the
sea, an arm that embraces quite a fleet of fishing boats. At
the back of it the shaggy oaks of Clovelly Court and its
purlieus cover the cliffs with a green mantle ; over them
soars the peak of Gallantry Bower ; over that again is the
horizon, the line broken as usual by the cliffs of Lundy.
Passing out of the woodland, out of the patches of sun-
light filtering through the leaves into the broad, undiluted
glare of day, we reach the head of the village, and, as we
look down the street, agree that it is " by long odds the
quaintest place in England."
Under our very feet is an abrupt street, every yard or
two a step, otherwise the soil must be washed away by the
heavy West Country rains, and every inch paved with
cobbles, of which the surface, polished by many feet, is
slippery exceedingly. Of course vehicular traffic is out of
the question ; goods and luggage are hauled up on little
sleighs. Indeed, there is one way only for a horse, and
cart to get to the shore at all. This is by means of a
break-neck road following the slopes of the cleeve to the
west of the village. Fortunately horses and carts need go
to the shore but seldom.
Some sixty years ago, when this road was little more
than a narrow lane, a relative of mine, having gotten unto
himself a wife, started on a driving tour through the West
of England. In due time they reached Clovelly, and, their
postillion being ignorant of the nature of the place, they
152 Clovelly.
presently found themselves in this lane sliding seaward. It
was only by good fortune that they were not collected bit
by bit from the bottom of the declivity. The horses were
stopped somehow and taken out, and the carriage, it
being impossible to turn it, was dragged up the hill back-
wards. The advent of this reckless bride and bridegroom
made a deep impression upon the Clovelly folk, and old
men still speak of the pair who tried to drive " down
along."
Despite its situation, despite the absence from its street
of char-a-banc, coach, and 'bus, this picturesque village,
whereof no two houses are alike, and scarcely two on the
same level, is anything but dull. The feet of passers-by
keep up an incessant patter, pleasant enough by day, but
not so delightful at night when the inns turn out their
customers, or the fishermen go up or down from or to
their boats — for Clovelly is a great herring port. A tourist,
driven to desperation by the sound, has thus recorded his
impressions in the visitors' book at the New Inn :
The vision bright
Of that dark night
At Bethel long ago
Had steps of light
With angels white
Whose feet tripped to and fro ;
And now in Devon
One catches heaven
In glimpses passing fair,
And hears the feet
In Clovelly's street
Not angels' and not bare !
The man who has had " a drop too much " navigates this
staircase at his peril. In fact, as a native said to the writer
whose remark I have quoted above, " the folks do only dare
get tight at one inn — the one at t' bottom o' the hill. Them
as lives three doors away must keep always sober." And
Clovelly. 153
it is hard work under any circumstances climbing this
street. Here is another extract from the visitors' book :
The winding stair which natives call Clovelly
The treadmill were a name more meet.
Good-bye ! 'Tis hard to go away,
But 'twould be harder far to stay.
The houses that line this staircase are picturesque to a
degree. Flowers love Clovelly, and many a cottage is
embowered in roses, fuchsia, and honeysuckle. The gardens,
too, wedged in between the houses, are masses of bloom.
Let us descend — warily — to the quay, a semi-circular piece
of rough masonry, the lower walls covered with rich brown
seaweed — oar-weed the people call it — the upper hung
with nets. There are one or two smacks and many fishing
boats ; for trade is at a discount at Clovelly, and fishing at
a premium. In fact, it is the means whereby for two-thirds
of the year Clovelly lives. It is the Brixham of North
Devon. You expect, therefore, to see nets, and they are
here in plenty. The quay is festooned with them, so is
every bit of wall anywhere near.* Off the pierhead lie
steamers with well-known West Country names, Lorna
Doone and Westward Ho ! waiting to return with
excursionists to Ilfracombe.
In a cottage which is now part of the Red Lion Inn,
abutting on the pier, dwelt the original of Salvation Yeo.
The old man actually was called Yeo, but the Christian
name was one of Kingsley's fancies. Although Yeo is
gone, there are still many who knew the novelist. One
ancient sailor — he must be close on fourscore now — told
me, as he tugged manfully at his oar across the blue waters
of the bay, that he had been taught by him " to Sunday
School." Another related how — twice over in his pride —
* The take of herrings drift fishing is measured by the maise — 612 fish.
A quarter of a maise is therefore 153 fish, to which Sir Frederick Pollock
calls attention as being equivalent, curiously enough, to the miraculous
" draught." — English Illustrated Magazine, vol. ii., " Clovelly."
1 54 Freshwater.
he had been invited up to see Kingsley's father and
mother at Chelsea. An old lady washing clothes in front
of a cottage near the lifeboat house, preparatory to
spreading them over that excellent drying ground, the
shore, had also been his pupil, and evidently felt towards
him something very like affection. This old soul, by the
way, is always washing clothes. Whenever I go to
Clovelly, which is three or four times every summer, there
she is planted behind her tub, with a " mushroom " straw
hat shading her keen old face, hard at work. Nothing
disturbs her ; trippers go by in shoals, but she heeds them
not. Even when you are talking to her — and she is ready
enough to talk — she seldom looks up, and never leaves off
washing. I believe she could wash in her sleep.
As for Kingsley himself, " his love for Clovelly was a
passion." When he returned at the age of thirty, having
left the place a youth of seventeen, his delight at finding
Clovelly unchanged knew no bounds. " I cannot believe
my eyes," he writes to his wife ; " the same place, the
same pavement, the same dear old smells, the dear old
handsome, loving faces again." Fancy even loving the
smells — now happily a thing of the past.
One of the most picturesque cottages overlooking
Clovelly Pier is a long, narrow building with a slated
verandah supported on sloping posts. It is called Crazy
Kate's Cottage. Crazy Kate was a girl whose proper
name was Kate Lyall. The loss of her lover at sea — most
Clovelly men who do not die in their beds are drowned —
affected her reason, and she became " mazed." " She wor'
harmless enough, poor crittur," said the sailor who told me
the story, " only cruel whist like, for her did care for 'un,
they do say, terrible."
If you turn your gaze a quarter of a mile to the eastward
you will see " Freshwater," the largest of the cliff 'cascades.
The glen above was the scene of that sad meeting between
Clove I ly Dykes. 155
the Leigh brothers and their cousin Eustace, when Amyas
wrung from his treacherous kinsman the papers about the
Popish plot Kingsley gives this cascade a height of " some
hundreds of feet." But his love for Clovelly and its
surroundings has, I am afraid, made him partial. Fresh-
water, though fine enough in its way, is no Norwegian
foss.*
* " Up over," half an hour's walk from the head of the stair where the
road joins the highway to Hartland, are the large earthworks known as
Clovelly Dykes or Ditchen Hills. Those people who want to connect
Clovelly with the Romans, and to trace its name to'Clausa Vallis (the shut
in valley), would call these earthworks a Roman camp. But they are
certainly Celtic (though of course it is possible that the Romans may
have occupied them), and the name Clovelly is much more likely to be a
softening of Cleeve Lea (the cliff slope or pasture). In Domesday it is
called Clovelie, which is getting pretty near. The camp, which is rather
oval than circular, has three entrenchments, one within the other, and, as
far as can be made out (for a great part is covered with furze) ; the height
varies from twenty-five feet on the outer vallum to ten feet, or thereabouts,
on the inner. The area of the whole is about twenty acres, and the space
within the inner vallum (measured by pacing) about three hundred and fifty
feet by two hundred and twenty. When I saw this, the strongest part of the
camp, it was a cornfield ; so do times change. A ditch runs, or ran, round
the outer bank, and was repeated, though not to so great a depth, round each
of the other lines.
CHAPTER XI.
HARTLAND.
Remote District — Clovelly Church — The Carys — Clovelly Park —
Gallantry Bower — Mouth Mill — Exmansworthy — On Samplers — Hart-
land Point — The Pony and the Foghorn — Smoothlands — Blackmouth —
Hartland Abbey— Stoke St. Nectan— A Bellicose Parish.
Of rich oak bosses on each height,
And rills that ripple down the glen,
Now foaming1 into purest white.
Now running into gloom again ;
Of deep ravines and hollow combes,
Of foxglove banks and ferny dells,
And a fair bay which ever booms
Its music as the ocean swells ;
And hawks that, wildly screaming, wheel
Around each rude and savage cliff,
And sea birds, that with downy keel
Skim o'er the billows like a skiff.
E. CAPERN.
IN the very north-western corner of Devonshire, remote
from the railway, remote from a town, remote from
anything, lies a district which, until days very recent
indeed, was as little known to the average Englishman —
nay, I may go further, and say the average Devonshire
man — as Ultima Thule itself. Nowadays the walking
tourist plodding coastwise into Cornwall and the passengers
by coach from Bideford or Clovelly do now and again
import into it something from the outside world ; but few
and far between are the visits, for Hartland lies on the road
to nowhere.
Clovelly Church. 157
Hartland — I speak of the district, not of the village,
though that is dull enough — has in the country inland
little to recommend it. It is to the glen beneath the
church-town, the grand church itself ("the Cathedral of
North Devon " as it has been called, above all to the
splendid coast line, that Hartland owes its growing fame.
Here along
The foam-laced margin of the western sea
are combes and " mouths," towering precipice and spray-
swept down, streamlet and cascade, enough to satisfy the
most exacting of those searchers after the picturesque that
year after year come in greater flood to the hills and valleys
of the West.
It is easier to get into Clovelly than out of it. Whether
you ascend by the winding stair or by the road that zigzags
upwards to Yellery Gate, the entrance to Clovelly Park,
the pull is stiff. The grounds of Clovelly Court — where
once the Carys lived — must be passed through if we follow
the coast ; but be it remembered that they are closed on
Tuesdays and Saturdays, and, like the Hobby Drive, are not
to be entered without the payment of a small fee even on
other days. It may still the grumblings of those who
object to pay for scenery to be told that these fees go
towards local charities.
But before we explore the wild recesses of the Deer
Park let us look into the church where lie the bones of
many generations of dead and gone Carys, and where
Charles Kingsley's father was rector half a century ago.
Clovelly Church stands above the hill to the west of the
village, side by side with Clovelly Court. It is an ancient
building, as shown by its plain, sturdy Norman tower and
fine old arch to the porch with chevron moulding. The
porch itself is ample and cool, and covered over with good
oaken roof. And the font is Norman, too — some say
Saxon, though the assumption that there was once a
158 Clove I ly Church.
Saxon church at Clovelly does not rest on basis very sub-
stantial. The rest of the building is Perpendicular, and
of no special interest. The interest lies chiefly in the
tombs.
They are nearly all of Carys, or of descendants of Carys.
The oldest, in the chancel floor, is marked by a brass
to Robert Gary, a mailed warrior; another brass is also
incised with a figure in armour ; and a third, to .George
Gary, is dated 1601. The monument over the south end of
the chancel rails must be that of wild Will Gary of
"Westward Ho!" "In memory of William Gary Esqr.,"
runs the inscription, " who served his King and Country
in ye office of a Justice of Peace under three Princes
Q. Elizabeth, King James and King Charles the I. and
having served his generation dyed in the 76 yeare of his
age An0. Dom. 1652. Omnis caro faenum." The only
objection to be made is that the young gallant would only
have been two years old at the time of the Armada ! But
this is a trifle after all.
Facing this monument is placed, and very appropriately
placed, a brass to the memory of the man who has done
much more than the epitaph to make <( Will Gary " known
to fame — Charles Kingsley. This brass, which is also to
the memory of his wife Mary Lucas, was put up by their
daughter Mrs. Harrison, and her husband, the present
rector.
" The churchyard," says a writer in the Standard, " the
churchyard is to us like a chapter of romance. Half the
names we know best in 'Westward Ho!' are on its stones.
Here are two names that conjure up those ' five desperate
minutes ' on the mountain road when the gold-train was
taken ; when the surviving Spaniards ' two only who were
behind the rest, happening to be in full armour, escaped
without mortal wound, and fled down the hill again.' They
were chased by ' Michael Evans and Simon Heard. . . .
Clovelly Court. • 159
two long and lean Clovelly men . .- . who ran two
feet for the Spaniards' one ; and in ten minutes returned
having done their work.' There is a name that reminds
us of John Squire the armourer — there are Ebbsworthy
and Parracombe, the two truants found by Amyas and
Ayacanora in the forest with the Indian girls who had
beguiled them from their duty. There are Yeo and
Hamblyn, and a Passmore, which last calls up the portly
figure of the good-natured ' Lucy Passmore, the white witch
to Welcombe.' "
And the epitaphs are eloquent of the fate of those who
"go down to the sea in ships." Of curious ones there are
singularly few. But a slab opposite the east window has
a verse ending quaintly :
Think not that youth will keep you free
For Death at 27 months call'd off we.
Again on the south side where " imbosom'd in this silent
grave lie the mortal remains of Robert Hockin," his widow
thus apostrophises the departed :
And didst Thou lead the way before that I
Who after two years might learn how well to die,
Lo, now I follow thee into that Life
Where can be no divorce 'twixt man and wife.
The tower is worth climbing, if only for the view of the
bay. But the stairs end with the belfry, and the roof
can only be reached by ladders — a very primitive con-
trivance that will commend itself to few but the young and
active.
Clovelly Court is below. It is not the old house where
the Carys lived — that perished by fire a hundred years ago.
They had rare times these Carys, and the Giffords their
predecessors. No criminal need be handed over to the
sheriff; they hanged him themselves. Had they not the
right ? Truly — still, if they had not, it would probably have
mattered little, for might was right in those days and short
160 . Gallantry Bower.
rede was good rede. Even now, though the power of life and
death has gone, the lord of the manor may take a portion
of the fish caught in the bay for his own use. Whether
Mr. Hamlyn-Fane ever exercises this right, I did not
inquire.
Delightful are the grounds, with timbered park and paths
fringed by rhododendron. But the most romantic part
is along the cliff, where the paths meander through glades
of oak, and in and out between mossy boulders. Far
below, through the interlacing branches, the sun glitters
upon the points of the waves, and here and there, where
comes a gap in the foliage, you may see the whole extent
of the bay, not only to the estuary of Taw and Torridge,
but even to the pale line of the rugged headland that rises
above the Rock of Death. Gulls float lazily in mid-air,
and, half-way down the cliff, you may occasionally see one
or two dark birds with legs of bright scarlet. They are
Cornish choughs, birds that become rarer and rarer as
time goes on. Before many years have flown they bid fair
to be as extinct as the dodo.
We emerge from the oaks and reach a heathery common
sloping upwards towards a headland, the summit crowned
by a handful of wind-swept trees. Sheer to the boulder
beach, smooth and regular as a wall, falls the cliff the most
perpendicular in Devon. There is scarcely an excrescence
in the whole face of it, though it is close on four hundred
feet in height, and you may see the whole wall, from
summit to base, by leaning over the sharp, clean-cut edge.
The cliff is called Gallantry Bower — why, no one knows,
unless, as someone suggests, the name is a corruption
(like many other names in this district) of some Celtic
words, and stands for Col an veor, the great ridge. The
very shadowy tale that it gets its name from the suicide
of a hopeless lover may be dismissed without com-
ment, for self-destruction ' has certainly no connection
Mouth Mill. 161
with a deed of gallantry. Besides, how about the
bower ?
From this imposing cliff a stony track drops into Mouth
Mill, a deep wooded glen watered by the usual trout stream,
and opening on to the shore close by a cottage or two, and
an old limekiln. On the eastern side of the cove is the
Black Church Rock, a dark steeple-shaped mass rising at
the foot of the cliffs to a height of eighty feet or so. It is
pierced by two arches, or, rather, openings — for the heads
are rectangular, owing to the direction of the strata, which
here run in oblique lines and not in curves. Not that
curves are absent. A great block that has fallen from
the cliff is bent and twisted till it looks like the ribs
of a wreck. Indeed, everywhere along this coast we
shall notice the strange contortions of these carboniferous
rocks.
A difficult climb through a coppice of low, weather-
beaten oak, under the branches of which you have sometimes
to creep almost on all fours, is the only way out of Mouth
Mill coastwise. After ascending three or four hundred
feet, we find ourselves at the top of the cliffs, in some rough
fields, and soon cross another combe, down which rattles a
little stream that flings itself over the cliff in a shower of
spray.
Above is Windbury Head, and as we mount the
landward slope we notice that it is fortified near the summit
by the segment of an earthwork or " cliff castle." Then
more fields and another little dell, and so we reach
Exmansworthy Cliff, which is a good hundred feet higher
than Gallantry Bower, though not so precipitous. Here
we pause and look back past the Black Church Rock and
Gallantry Bower to the long line of timbered cliff beyond
Clovelly, which is hidden in its deep cleeve, though the
white Court above is still conspicuous.
It is a wild country. No house is visible except the
M
l62
Exmansworthy.
Court and some cottages far away on the Hartland road,
which appear now and again as some higher point is
reached commanding a view over the bleak highlands
that roll away to the south. There is no path to this road,
or even to Exmansworthy Farm, a lonely homestead
difficult to find, but, according to the map, some way "in
over."
When lunch time comes — and it comes with a celerity
that is surprising — the man who has been so improvi-
dent as to leave Clovelly provisionless must content
himself with such fare as he can get there, or at
some other of the farms that sparsely dot this bleak
country, and these he will not find it an easy matter to
discover.
This out of the world part of Devonshire, this country
at the back of the Pillars of Hercules,* is just the place
where you would expect to find old-world manners and
customs, old-world fashions and old-world furniture. . Here
linger those fearful and wonderful works of art called
samplers, the evolution whereof was once considered part
of the education of every well-regulated female child — next,
indeed, to the acquisition of the Creed, the Lord's Prayer,
and the Ten Commandments in the vulgar tongue. (We
should call them waste of time nowadays, but then the
female child — well or ill-regulated — is rarer than she was
a hundred years ago.) I remember one — a sampler, not a
child — at a cottage in Hartland Town, a piece of work of
extraordinary merit, no doubt, in its day. And the verses
— they generally embroidered "poetry" as well as the
alphabet and the numerals — were wonderful. I do not
know what they were meant to convey, and most of
them I have forgotten, but one line I carried away with
me and have often pondered. The writer, after thank-
* Visuntur hinc Antiquis, sic dictae Herculis Columnae, et nonprocul hinr
Insula Herculea. — " Itinerary of Richard of Cirencester." Herculea is Lundy.
Samplers. 163
ing the Creator for various mercies, expresses gratitude,
for
A heart to regale and recline !
Still, with all their absurdities, I confess to a tender feeling
for these faded specimens of the "art needlework" of the
past. About them there is a whiff, as it were, of the " good
old days " — a sort of pathos about the quaint designs of a
century ago.
Long laid to rest the patient hands
That played with primal tints,
And faded are the silken strands
As sad and sallow chintz.
One figures to oneself the mother in high-backed chair
at her spinning wheel, whereof the drowsy " whirr " fills
the quiet room, the sunlight printing the lines of the little
old window panes on the floor, the low window seat and
pot of roses on the sill, while at the mother's feet sits the
child stitching slowly at her sampler.
Her little childish world was set
Within that tarnished frame,
Beginning with the alphabet
She found so hard to name ;
In early English A to N,
In Gothic O to Z ;
Beneath the figures I to 10
Stand out in dingy red.
And then she set herself to build
A house two stories high,
With many rows of windows filled,
Beneath an azure sky.
The tiles have lost their ruddy tone ;
Unsteady leans the wall ;
The winds of many years have blown
Yet has it braved them all.
Her garden grew, a garish green —
Those yellow streaks were walks;
Long lines of lilies still are seen,
Now drab on withered stalks.
M 2
164 Hart land Point.
The roses in a clustered knot
Have never ceased to blow,
Though planted in that tiny plot
So many years ago.
With childish art she stitched a heart
Although at such an age
She had not known of Cupid's dart
Not e'en from Herrick's page.
Content beside her mother's knee
She hummed some simple lilt ;
Ah me ! she must have danced to see
Her triumph glow in gilt ! *
We scramble onwards by field, by gorse brake, by strips
of common, over innumerable fences and cliff edges rough
with undergrowth, till we reach the fine scenery about
Chapman Rocks. Here is Fatacott Cliff, apparently the
loftiest of the whole line stretching from Mouth Mill to
Hartland. And now comes Shipload Bay, a cove shut
in between the precipitous walls of Eldern Point and
the cliffs of Titchberry, so called from the farm-hamlet at
their back. The rocks of Eldern Point are twisted into
every conceivable shape of zigzag and curve. Just inside
the Point they are thrust upwards in the form of concentric
arches, band within band of stone. Into this bay, even in
calm weather, the sea rolls majestically, sliding far up the
beach of gravelly sand.
Over the head of Titchberry Cliffs the going is worse
than ever, but the roughest ground comes to an end some-
time, and, a mile from Shipload Bay, we reach better ground
at Barley Bay, another little cove, across which rises that
great rock wall, the summit of which we have seen for the
last hour — Hartland Point.
It is not the height of Hartland Point that makes it so
striking ; it is the perpendicular wall of rock, dark and
forbidding, with nothing but a few clumps of heather to
* " On a Sampler." By ReginaldJHelder. English Illustrated Magazine,
August, 1894.
Hartland Point. 165
soften its grimness ; its wild and indeed mountainous
appearance, which gives it a look of grandeur shared by
no other headland in the Bristol Channel. For this
Promontory of Hercules, the Heracleia Acte of Ptolemy,
is almost detached from the neighbouring cliffs, and thrusts
itself into the breakers at the end of a jagged ridge scarped
down on either hand in precipice.
To get upon the headland one must scale this Alpine-
looking col — a feat only to be attempted when there
is little or no wind, as the edge is only about a foot
wide. The summit, a few feet higher, is covered with
a level strip of turf varying in breadth from ten feet
to thirty. Then on each side fall the cliffs, so suddenly
that at the end you may sit and dangle your legs over
the tower of the lighthouse, built on a little platform two
hundred and fifty feet below and perhaps a hundred
above the tide.
This lighthouse, approached by a road cut in the eastern
face of the headland, has, strange to say, only been built
twenty years. How many vessels went down with all
hands off this fearful corner before that warning gleam
shone forth over the wild waste of waters, one shudders to
think. Like the one at Bull Point, it is provided with a
powerful foghorn, and the good done by both lantern
and foghorn may be seen by the disappearance of the
old deadhouse for the drowned, once a feature of Stoke
Churchyard.
A passing acquaintance told me an amusing story
about Hartland foghorn, or, as it should be called, siren.
Wishing to take his wife on a visit to the lighthouse, he,
for her greater ease, hired a pony. Upon reaching the
building, he tethered the animal somewhere by the entrance.
When they had inspected the lighthouse, the keeper
volunteered to turn on the siren, and forthwith a frightful
blare roared out over the reefs. But when they went.
i66
Hartland Point.
for the pony, no pony was to be found. And it dawned
upon them that ponies possibly did not like sirens.
Ultimately he was discovered somewhere inland brought
up by a gate.
The view from Hartland is immense. To the right is
the Bristol Channel, to the left the Atlantic. The line of
demarcation is so pronounced that, while the eastern side
of the headland is washed by the waves of the Severn Sea,
against the western beats the surges of the Atlantic. There
is a change in the very motion of the water. On this
side are the short seas of the Channel — on that the " league
long rollers " of the ocean. The change is accounted for
by the fact that Lundy no longer acts as breakwater and
by the alteration in the " lie" of coast. Below Hartland it
no longer runs east and west, but north and south, so that
the waves roll upon the beach a broadside instead of
striking sideways, as is the case to the eastward. All of a
sudden you find yourself looking far down the Cornish
coast — so far that on a clear day I believe you will see the
blunt headland of Tintagel.
Lundy, now but twelve miles distant and seen nearly
end on, looks more lonely than ever, for now may be fully
appreciated what a waste of waters stretches away behind
the western cliffs. These same cliffs are exposed even
more fully than Hartland itself to the wrath of the Atlantic ;
I am told that, even from the mainland, the surf may
sometimes be seen spouting up the stern barrier of
granite — for Lundy is of granite, the only granite this
side of Dartmoor.
Off Hartland Point runs a swift tide race, and the strife
of wind and waters when the ebb of the Bristol Channel
meets the gale off the Atlantic is a sight to be remembered.
On the stillest day the surface of the water is streaked
with lines of foam, relict of the hurricane, while the ever-
lasting swell rolls over the threshold of this, the very
HARTLAND POINT AND LUNDY ISLAND.
Smoothlands. 167
doorpost of the Bristol Channel, with a solemn dirge-like
tone that rises even to the summit of the cape.
And now our wanderings are no longer trackless. A
path appears, following closely the edge of a broken line
of cliff. Here is Upright Cliff, as its name implies a
perpendicular precipice rising above a cove guarded on its
northern side by a sloping stack of rock called the Cow
and Calf. Across the cove the land falls into the green
hollow of Smoothlands, but rises again into a peaked
eminence jutting into the breakers. In the side of this
headland, facing us as we tramp southward, is a huge
round mass of rock, for all the world like a stranded whale
or the hull of a ship lying on its side. Beyond is Damehole
Point, another rocky peak, so gnawed out by the waves
that it has become a peninsula, and will some day, if the
world lasts long enough, become an island.
At the back of Smoothlands we cross a stream which
ends in another cliff cascade, and thence pass over a
brow and down a steep furzy slope to Black Mouth.
As we open out the valley the lofty tower of Stoke
Church comes into view, rising over the woods on the
southern side.
Black Mouth deserves its name. For the actual mouth
of the combe is a dark rift in the slate rock, through which
the stream that comes down from the other side of Hart-
land Town rushes to the sea. Outside the mouth is barred
by formidable " sharks' teeth," round which the lips of
surf move with a suction that speaks volumes for any craft
coming within its merciless maw. Not a nice place for a
ship — a note of war rather than of peace sounds ever from
that relentless mouth. How different the combe itself !
Here, past the stately mansion, through bright green
meadows, beneath the shadow of oak, elm, and ash ; lower,
between turf with gorse and fern besprinkled, roams the
little river, which looks as if it could not be angry if it tried.
1 68 Hart land Abbey.
The mansion is Hartland Abbey. We "sight it," as
sailors say, as we climb slowly out of Black Mouth. It is a
good mile from the sea, sheltered on two sides by the walls
of the combe, and set about as well with a wooded amphi-
theatre.
The original abbey is said to have been founded by
Githa, wife of the great Earl Godwin, and was dedicated to
St. Nectan. It was a thank-offering for the Earl's escape
from shipwreck. Of Githa's building nothing remains,
but the old Augustinian monastery that arose on its site has
not so disappeared. In the basement of the mansion you
may still see some of the cloisters — those cloisters where
the monks walked and talked so many centuries ago. On
one of the arches is an inscription setting forth how the
cloisters were built by the Abbot John of Exeter between
1308 and 1329.
The vale in which the Abbey stands is, and must always
have been, a delightful retreat. Those old monks knew
well how to choose the sites for their monasteries. On
either side of the lawns which carpet the bottom, on either
side the trout stream were — as there are to-day — thick
woods, woods which harboured the harts from which, if
Leland is to be believed, Hartland took its name. It is an
oasis of beauty in a desert of commonplace, for no one
can call the scenery inland other than dullest of the dull.
Even Hartland Town partakes of the prevailing monotony.
Large as it is, no village in the West is more uninteresting,
nor will anyone be found to quarrel with the dictum of the
guide-book writer who calls its chapel-of-ease a chapel also
of ugliness.
So Hartland may be left to itself while we pass up over
the Warren to the great church of St. Nectan. On the top
of the down is a ruin, but not of archaeological interest.
It is only the shell of a " pleasure house " built by an
invalid once residing at the Abbey, who would visit it daily
St. Nectarfs. 169
to drink in the sea beeezes. He had a splendid and a varied
view, for right and left this ruin commands a rugged array
of cliffs, while below is the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of
shipping, for Harty Point, as Camden calls it — and indeed
as some West Country folk call it to this day — is "touched"
by most vessels going to or from the great ports of the
Bristol Channel.
The first question that must occur to most visitors to
Stoke St. Nectan's — Stoke is the hamlet at the churchyard
gate — is how on earth the great church ever becomes filled.
Hartland itself is two miles away, and the exposed situation
alone is anything but tempting, not to speak of the long
walk on a day wet or blustering. And they get plenty
of both at Hartland.
The building mainly dates from the fourteenth century,
the Perpendicular windows being later insertions. There
is a nave, with chancel on the same level, north and south
aisles and chapels — that on the north dedicated to St.
Mary, that on the south to St. Saviour — and short transepts.
Right across the church runs a superb oaken rood screen
yft. wide at the top. There are also parclose screens.
The eastern part of the roof of the nave is curiously and
rather gaudily painted with large stars, and is less to be
admired than that of the Chapel of St. Mary,* which has
some good carving.
In a loft in this chapel is preserved the old pulpit, on
which appears a goat with tusks, and, round the top, the
;nscription " God save King James Fines," the last word
being probably a mis-spelt finis. In the opposite chapel
of St. Saviour are some old carved bench ends which
happily escaped the fate of those in the body of the church,
which some idiotic restorer caused to be planed smooth !
* The Rev. G. Tugwell in his " North Devon Handbook " assigns this
Chapel to St. Saviour, and the other to St. Mary, but the verger assured me
that this is an error.
170 St Nectaris.
The chancel is unusually bare, but there are handsome
sedilia and piscina, and the altar is of serpentine and well
sculptured. It is said to have been brought from the
Abbey. In the chancel floor, removed from its former
position near the door, is a slab edged with brass to the
memory of one Thomas Docton. Some years since it bore
the following inscription, almost word for word the same
as the one at Kingsbridge :
Here I lie outside the chancel door
Here I lie because I'm poor
The further in, the more they pay
But here I lie as warm as they
According to the verger, the brass rim bearing the
letters, or the letters themselves, became loosened by the
feet of the congregation and disappeared. " The tomb,
however," as Murray justly remarks, "gives the lie to
the assertion of poverty." Near it, over the arch to
the rood stair, is the oldest monument in the church — a
brass to Anne, widow of William Abbott. It bears the
date 1610.
For we shall look in vain for the figures 1055 which,
according to Mr. Tugwell, are to be found on a stone in
the pavement. This stone, which, by the way, is now set
in the wall of the south transept, is a seventeenth century
tablet, and, as it bears a perfectly plain inscription in the
English of that period — to the memory of Mary, daughter
of Nicholas Luttrell — it is odd that so extraordinary a
mistake should have been made. It is true that the stroke
of the figure 6 is very faint indeed ; still, the inscription is
quite enough to show that the memorial has nothing to do
with the days of Edward the Confessor.
An interesting inscription, dating a few years later, may
be read on the north wall of the chancel : " In memory of
John Velly of Hartland, Gentleman, who faithfully served
that glorious Prince CHARLES the martyr and his Son
St. Nectan's Church. 171
during the late civil wars of England as a Captain Lewetenant
to Sir Richard Gary, and having survived these calamityes
lived to the enjoyment of peace and prosperity and a good
old age dying in his yyth year. Dec. jth 1694."
Mr. Tugwell says that there is a stone in the floor of the
nave (I have not myself seen it) to the memory of "Henery"
Willcock, who died in 1720, at the age of 24, bearing the
following address :
Stay awhile you passers bye
Arid see how I in dust do lie
Tho I ly here in confusing mould
I shall rise up like shining gold.
This young man appears to have had a mighty good
opinion of himself.
With the exception of the Norman arch in the north
porch (in a chamber over which are preserved the parish
stocks), perhaps a portion of the tower, and the font, there
is not much left of the early church of Hartland Abbey.
The font is quaint, being sculptured with faces all more or
less hideous — meant to represent, says the parson-poet
Hawker of Morwentstow, the righteous looking down upon
the wicked.
One is accustomed to queer appearances in the walls
of these West Country churches. I have seen a very
respectable fernery sprouting from the inside of the tower
of more than one, but on the walls of the tower of
St. Nectan's quite another growth — if that be the proper
word — appears. A saline incrustation, which has been
found on analysis to consist of carbonate of potass and
phosphate of soda, has eaten (and the process still
continues) large holes in the stones. Why the inside of
the tower alone is attacked, I cannot explain ; the outer
stones present, so far as I can remember, no trace whatever
of this sacrilegious compound.
One of the bells has a curious rhyming inscription. "The
172 St. Nectan's Church.
names of Dennis, Heard, Chope and Rowe with us can
never die They saved our lives not only so but bade us
multiply." As certain of these gentlemen were church-
wardens, it is presumed that they "saved the lives" of the
bells by having them recast. Of the other five, three also
bear noteworthy inscriptions : " We are a beacon to your
God Attend our call and 'scape His rod" ; " A voice from
the Temple a voice from the Lord " ; and " Watch for ye
know not the hour of death."
By all means ascend to the top of the tower, which,
including the pinnacles, rises to a height of I47ft. Hence
is a magnificent view over land and sea : of Hartland Town
and of Hartland Vale with the Abbey set in its midst, of
Black Mouth and other indentations of the stern coast, and
of Lundy guarding the Channel entrance a dozen miles
away. On the eastern face of the tower, a long way
beneath, the figure of St. Nectan stands in a niche, looking
towards the place where once stood his Abbey. One
sapient observer opines that " St. Nectan is a female
saint." If female saints wore beards and kept their heads
warm with mitres, then this grim-looking figure may be
that of a lady. For our part we incline to the belief that
the saint was of the sterner sex.*
Anyhow, the saint ought to have been a man. For surely
no church was ever more militant than this church of St.
Nectan. Just look at the churchwarden's accounts : '• Paid
to George Husbande for three bullett bagges for the three
churche musquettes, xiiaf. Paid for lace to fasten the
lyninge of the morians belonging to the churche corselettes
and for priming irons for the chirche musquettes, nd. Paid
for a hilt and handle and a scabert for a sworde, and for
mendinge a dagger of the church, i\s." And so on — Roger
* St. Nectan was brother of St. Morwenna, and "founded the stations,
now the churches, of Hartland and Wellcombe." — Rev. Hawker's "Cornish
Ballads."
St. Nee tan's Church. 173
Syncocke getting a penny for mending a " churche pike,"
and some nameless person at " Exon." having as much as
£6 133. for other arms. What on earth could a church
have wanted with all this panoply ? Verily this must have
been a wild corner of Gloriana's dominions when the
church needed " musquettes " and " corselettes," not to
speak of " swords " and " daggers."
CHAPTER XII.
THE BORDERLAND OF DEVON AND CORNWALL.
Mouths — Hartland Quay — Catterin Tor — Spekesmouth — Henbury Beacon
Welcombe — An Eccentric Parson — " Jollow's " — Welcombe Mouth
Cruel Coppinger — Marsland Mouth.
" The foam-laced margin of the western sea."
FROM the borders of Somerset, where our walk commenced,
we have now nearly reached the confines of another county,
the " rocky land of strangers " — Cornwall. But how
different the scenery ! Here are no massive downs plunging a
thousand feet into the sea, but precipices of rock ; no woods
of oak and ash clothing the declivities almost to the water
line, indeed no trees at all ; no watering place ensconced
in an Alpine valley, or village winding up a green combe
towards the highlands above ; no terraced town with its
harbour full of excursion steamers — scarcely even a village.
Stern and rugged the coast line, bald and bare the cliff
tops, wild and wind-swept the country that stretches
away inland towards the springs of Tamar and Torridge.
In the combes alone — they are called mouths here —
is there foliage, and even there the trees cluster only
about the upper end, for the breath of the Atlantic is
fierce.
These mouths are the only break in the eternal line of
cliff, for of open sandy beach there is little or none. Mile
after mile the great walls of rock rise from the breakers, cut
through here and there by a deep chine always watered by
Mouths. 175
a stream. Off the mouth the shore is ever the same, a floor
of solid rock with strata tilted on end and worn almost as
sharp as the edge of a knife — reefs running out at right
angles, " one rasp of which would grind abroad the timbers
of the stoutest ship."
It is calm enough to-day, yet there are not wanting signs
of the late storm. The breakers come in with oily roll —
The storm is dead ; but still the deep
Remembers all the conflict passed ;
nor is the day far distant when the coast folk will again
see
The surges hurry from afar
To lay upon the narrow sand
The shattered mast, the broken spar,
An oar, a twisted rudder band.
I doubt if there be any half-mile free from the debris of
ships that have ended their last voyage on this iron-bound
coast.
We have had one of these " mouths " already ; we shall
have three or four more ere we reach the last and greatest,
the deep combe called Marsland Mouth, down which flows
the brook forming the boundary line between Devon and
Cornwall. Wild and romantic though they are, they are hard
work — I know few walks, for its length, more fatiguing
than the tramp along the coast from Hartland to Marsland
Mouth. I remember doing the whole distance from
Clovelly to Welcombe (which is close to Marsland) in one
walk, and I have seldom felt more weary. For, although
the distance may not be more than eighteen miles, the
labour is equal to thirty on good turf and ground fairly
even, and I recommend future pedestrians to bring up at
Hartland Quay, close under St. Nectan's Church, where, at
the foot of the grassy down, is a little inn almost within
reach of the spray, and looking out on as wild a view as
any in the two western counties.
ij6 Hartland Quay. — Catterin Tor.
The Quay is a massive arm of masonry thrust out
among the rocks for the protection of the occasional
coaster that in fair weather ventures to tempt Providence
and the reefs of Hartland. The bottom is none of the
best, for, with the exception of *a few square yards of
sand or shingle, which may alter with the first raking sea,
it is of solid rock. And yet a " port" was projected in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth, and a Bill actually laid before
Parliament. But it was never made. Perhaps it is as well
that the scheme fell through, for the making of such a port
must have been a costly affair, and could never have been a
success commercially.
From the quay you will get a striking view of the iron-
bound coast, with its dark slate cliffs ribbed with lines of
red schist, and its extraordinary contortions, the result of
some primeval earthquake. " No words can exaggerate
the number and violence of these contortions — sometimes
in regular undulating curves, sometimes in curves broken
at their points of contrary flexure, and exhibiting a succes-
sion of cusps like regular pointed arches — sometimes,
though more rarely, thrown into salient and re-entering
angles."*
Resuming our march southward, we soon reach Tor
Point, at the eastern boundary of a green valley. From
the meadows at the bottom a lofty conical hill, called
Catterin Tor, rises abruptly, the landward side covered
with furze, the seaward a precipice. On the summit are
the remains of a camp or cliff castle, and a position more
impregnable it would be difficult to find. From the brow
of the next hill we look down upon Spekesmouth, or
Spokesmouth, a moorland valley ending in a gorge in the
lofty frowning cliffs through which a stream once more
flings itself to the shore over a great slab of rock. This,
* Vide a paper contributed by Messrs. Sedgwick and Murchison to the
" Transactions of the Geological Society for 1837."
Henbury Beacon. 177
perhaps the finest cascade on the coast, is at least fifty feet
high, and against the black glistening wall of rock the spray
shows white as snow. At twilight, when the valley is
wrapped in shadow, and the moan of the restless sea rises
ever louder on the silence of coming night, the spot is
weird indeed.
There is a stiff little climb to the top of the cliffs above
Spekesmouth, and then, for three miles or more, the walking
is easy and pleasant. The summits are of nearly level
table-land, the ground rising almost imperceptibly as head-
land after headland sinks to the sea, each a little loftier
than the last. Loftiest of all is Henbury Beacon, where
the strata lie in lines so even that at a distance the cliff
resembles a great wall of masonry. On the summit
are the remains of another cliff castle. This must have
been an extensive fortification, and consisted of a triple
earthwork. Of the outer there is little left, but the second
is complete, and stretches from cliff to cliff in a semi-
circular sweep eight feet high. On the outside is a ditch ;
on the inside, a wide belt of level ground separates
it from the third bank, which has a well-defined ditch,
and rises to a height of nearly ten feet. Within this,
the area, owing to the falling away of the cliff, is very
small. The view of the coast is extensive, the whole
line of broken precipice right away to Hartland Point
being visible, as well as a long stretch of the Cornish
shore.
Descending the steep down at the back of the cliff castle,
we find another combe yawning before us — Welcombe
Mouth. Dark moorlands frame it in ; it is deep and wild
like an Exmoor valley. At the head, a mile and a half
from the sea, the little grey church and scattered cottages
of Welcombe village dot the hillside. Welcombe Church,
like Hartland, is dedicated to St. Nectan, and " St. Nectan's
well " gives its name to the valley. It is a church of no
N
1 78 Welcombe,
architectural pretension, and contains nothing of interest
save an ancient, but very dilapidated, screen and a Norman
font. The living was, till recently, held with that of the
adjoining Cornish parish of Morwenstow, and at Welcombe
on Sunday afternoons would officiate that eccentric genius
Robert Stephen Hawker, the parson-poet, whose name, in
spite of his oddity, is still a by-word in all the countryside
for lovingkindness and Christian charity. Here, as an old
inhabitant told me, he was in the habit of turning up half
an hour before the time appointed for service, and, after
telling his people the week's news, would bargain with
them for his corn, poultry, and any other comestibles of
which he might stand in need, paying the bill on the
Sunday following !
In more than one book I have seen allusions to
the swarthy complexions of the women of Welcombe.
" Dark grained as a Welcombe woman," says one, " tells
its own tale," and we are given to understand that the
darkness of their complexion is the origin of the saying.
No such idea, however, prevails in Welcombe itself, or,
indeed, anywhere in the neighbourhood, and a man who had
known the parish all his life told me that he had never
heard the "proverb," and denied that the Welcombe ladies
were darker than their sisters elsewhere.
There is no inn at Welcombe, and I shall not soon forget
with what a sinking of the spirits we heard — at the end
of a long day's tramp, too — that there was no sleeping
accommodation, and not much of that either, nearer than
Morwenstow. "Was there nothing whatever?" we asked,
desperately. "Well, you might get a bed down to Jollow's."
" Where was ' down to,' and who or what was ' Jollow's' ?''
" Jollow's," it turned out, was a little farm down the
combe, half a mile from the sea, and "you couldn't mis-
take 'un because her wor' the only place down along
except the Hermitage, a gennelman's house (and what an
Jollow's. 1 79
appropriate name), a gunshot below." We struggled on to
"Jollow's" to find that Jollow was a man, not a place.
A good man, too, for, though he durst not commit himself
to the promise of a bed until the return of his " missus," he
set before us such fare as was " handy," and we ate,
drank, and blessed him. And when the "missus" returned,
shortly after dark, she found room for both of us — if one
bed can be called " room " — and we slept the sleep of the
weary.
Welcombe Valley is known among all the border combes
for the great masses of thorn, which, when the year is yet
young, lie on the hillsides like drifts of snow. You can see
it all as you pass along the road leading to the beach — a
road following the banks of the Strawberry Water. The
beach, a wild spot, is paved, as usual, with a floor of
black rock ribs, running parallel out to sea. Off the cliffs
at the southern extremity rises the Gull Rock. Above
a bold dark fell towers over the meeting of stream and
sea.
A wild spot, as I have said— a spot fit for the doings
of one of the greatest scoundrels that ever cheated the
Revenue, or lured sailors to a cruel death on the rocks of
this pitiless shore. For this district was the haunt of
"Cruel Coppinger," who, though little remembered nowadays,
was once so notorious that his name even passed into verse:
Will you hear of cruel Coppinger ?
He came from a foreign land ;
He was brought to us by the salt water,
He was carried away by the wind.
In his paper "Cruel Coppinger" Mr. Hawker tells us
that he was a Danish sea captain, that his ship was wrecked
off Hartland, and that he was the only survivor. The
manner of his appearance was singular. While the crowd
who had gathered to the wreck, like eagles to the carcase,
more intent, it is to be feared, on plunder than on saving the
N 2
1 80 Coppinger.
lives of their fellow creatures, Coppinger rushed naked into
their midst. Snatching her red cloak from an old woman,
he threw it round him, and, springing on the horse of a girl
who sat looking on, he seized the reins and rode off at
full speed.
The girl was so amazed that she offered no resistance —
indeed, she may have guessed that the extraordinary
conduct of this man cast up by the sea was not without
reason. For in those days — it was a hundred years ago —
the greed of the wrecker often led to the murder of the
wrecked. Dead men told no tales, and, if none of the
crew were left, who was to interfere with their plunder?
Coppinger probably knew that if he once got into the
hands of these lawless characters his life would not be
worth many minutes' purchase, and so he chose this
desperate method of attempting an escape.
And he succeeded. The frightened horse, bearing his
double burden, rushed to Dinah Hamlyn's home, and the
kindly farmer took the fugitive in. Here he stayed, and,
after awhile, became the husband of the girl whose
acquaintance he had made in fashion so extraordinary. But
it was a bad thing for poor Dinah. As soon as her father
was dead, Coppinger showed himself in his true colours.
He took possession of all the dead man's property, and
turned the house into a resort for wreckers, smugglers, and
ruffians of the worst character. In vain did his wife
protest. Coppinger took no notice of her whatever, and,
when her mother refused to give up to him her own little
fortune, he tied the wretched girl to the bedpost, and
threatened to flog her until the money was handed over.
The mother of course gave way, and the heartless
scoundrel, further enriched by this act of robbery, went on
his way unchecked.
Many are the stories told of him. How he beheaded a
gauger who dared to interfere with him on the gunwale of
Coppinger. 181
his own boat — how he bought a farm with part of his
illicit wealth, and when the lawyer demurred at being paid
in foreign gold, told him to take it or go without — how he
invited the parson of Kilkhampton (he must have been a
queer parson) to dinner, and gave him the dish which he
knew he most disliked, and how, when the parson paid
him in his own coin and he discovered that the rabbit pie
of which he had partaken was cat, he thrashed him till he
•was tired, and finally flung him to the ground with the
words, " There, parson, I have paid my tithe in full — never
mind the receipt."*
In these days such conduct of course would not be
tolerated for a moment. But -a century ago things were
very different. This coast, far from any town or populous
centre, lay scarcely within the pale of the law at all.
Excisemen went in peril of their lives ; magistrates kne^
better than to interfere, unless backed by an armed force.
In fact, it is whispered that they were not always averse to
a little smuggling themselves, and that many a keg of best
French brandy and many a pound of tobacco that never
paid duty found its way into the country houses for
consumption by the squire and his friends, while his wife
or daughter did not say " no " — what woman would ? — to a
yard or two of Mechlin or Valenciennes. Whether
Coppinger kept his Majesty's Justices quiet by gifts, or,
what is more probable, by the terror of his name, I do not
know, but, for a long time, he went scatheless. But his time
was at hand.
His coming had been romantic — his going was hardly
less so. Such crimes as his could not for ever remain
unpunished, and the toils of the exasperated Revenue
officers began to draw closer and closer. Cutters haunted
* This anecdote is told by the Rev. S. Baring-Gould in his "Vicar of
Morwenstow." Mr. Hawker says that he thrashed the parson for speaking of
his evil doings.
1 82 Marsland.
the coast from Hartland Point to Bude, and Coppinger saw
that he must fly. And his manner of disappearing was
characteristic. He said not a word to any, but one evening
a watcher saw him on the Gull Rock, waving his sword
to a vessel in the offing. No one knew whence she came
or whither she was bound, but she responded to his signals,
a boat was lowered, and Coppinger was seen to descend the
crag and embark. The boat reached the vessel, and she
disappeared in a moment, vanishing like a ghost at cockcrow-
Then arose a frightful storm, and neither man nor vessel
were ever seen more. The general opinion was that she
foundered with all on board. And so Coppinger went to
his account —
He was carried away by the wind.
We are now very near the end of our travels, so far as
the north coast is concerned. A cliff pathway winds round
the southern headland, and, in another mile, we are at
Marsland Mouth, the last valley in Devonshire, the first in
Cornwall. Like Welcombe it is deep, but it is wider,
with more of oak coppice about the upper end, and with
greater sweep of gorse-bespangled down where the chine
widens towards the sea. Hidden in deep thickets of
hazel and blackthorn, the stream turns and twists on
its way towards the beach, the only one, as Kingsley
says, where " a landing for a boat is made possible by
a long sea wall of rock, which protects it from the rollers
of the Atlantic."
Some way up the valley on the northern slope a small
thatched cottage is pointed out as the dwelling of the good-
natured " white witch " Lucy Passmore, and at the mouth
is the cove where lovely Rose Salterne, " slipping off her
clothes, stood shivering and trembling for a moment before
she entered the sea," magic mirror in hand, and tremulously
uttered the incantation which was to throw upon the
mirror the face of the gallant who loved her best :
Mar si and. 183
A maiden pure, here I stand,
Neither on sea nor yet on land ;
Angels watch me on either hand.
If you be landsman, come down the strand ;
If you be sailor, come up the sand ;
If you be angel, come from the sky,
Look in my glass and pass me by.
Look in my glass and go from the shore ;
Leave me, but love me for evermore.
How the rite was disturbed by landsmen coming down the
strand — the fugitive Jesuits and wounded Eustace Leigh —
everyone knows, or ought to know. If they do not, they
had better read " Westward Ho ! " at once. And surely I
cannot better end this account of what may be seen along
the north coast of Devon than by another quotation from
the greatest of our prose epics, which tells in language to
which few nowadays can lay claim how one of our coves
looks by moonlight :
" She was between two walls of rock ; that on her left
hand, some twenty feet high, hid her in deepest shade ;
that on her right, though much lower, took the whole blaze
of the midnight moon. Great festoons of olive and purple
seaweed hung from it, shading dark cracks and crevices,
fit haunts for all the goblins of the sea. On her left hand,
the peaks of the rock frowned down ghastly black ; on her
right hand, far aloft, the downs slept bright and cold.
" The breeze had died away ; not even a roller broke
the perfect stillness of the cove. The gulls were all asleep
upon the ledges. Over all was a true autumn silence — a
silence which may be heard."
PART II.
LUNDY ISLAND.
CHAPTER XIII.
A GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
Appearance — Geology — Climate — Fogs — Wrecks — The Islanders — The
Island Polity — Cultivation — An "Explosive" Story — Mammalia
Birds — Fishing.
I lay afloat in an idle boat,
A fisher lad held the oar,
On a Devon strand and watched the grand
Old waves rush up the shore.
Some leagues away old Lundy lay,
Guarding the middle sea ;
The sun and mist his low length kissed,
Yet rugged and cold looked he.
AND such is a fair picture of the distant solitary island
that has for so many miles been before our eyes. It lies,
a stern barrier, right across the mouth of the Bristol
Channel — a long and narrow table-land, varying little in
height except towards the northern end, where the surface
dips before rising into the bold sloping headland that,
covered with a wild "clatter" of granite, looks across to
the misty shore of Pembroke.
It is not really low, though in comparison to its length
it looks so. But, whether in sun or storm, it is certainly
rugged. As seen from the mainland, no smiling pasture
greets the eye, no grove of trees breaks the long monotone
of its outline, no verdure of oak or ash — at any rate, on the
Geology. 185
western side — clothes the great cliffs of granite over which
the spray of the Atlantic flies high in the gales of winter.
Even on the eastern coast the slopes are seldom relieved by
anything higher than bracken, though this covers it in a
thick carpet down to the very brink of the cliffs.
It is not a large island — three miles long and, at the
widest, a mile across, you may walk round it in a few
hours.* Nine miles and a half, say the islanders, is the
length of the track that, following the coast line, runs from
Marisco Castle to John o' Groat's and back to the landing
place ; but the miles are Lundy miles, and what with tor
and boulder to be circumvented — not to speak of an
occasional patch of bog — none but the man who wishes to
establish that abomination of modern days, a "record/'
will care to do it between breakfast and luncheon. If you
wish to enjoy the magnificent scenery to the full, you
should take the whole day. And you will not find it too
long.
Long and narrow, indented everywhere with coves, the
shape of the island is like a hart's-tongue fern. Mr.
Gosse compares it to an oak leaf, but it tapers more than
an oak leaf does, the breadth gradually diminishing from
nearly a mile at the southern end to little more than a
quarter at the northern. It is, however, very irregular, and
the average breadth may perhaps be taken at half a mile.
The geology is peculiar. With the exception of the
south-eastern corner, it is a mass of granite thrust up
through the sedimentary rocks, which are now only repre-
sented by the clay slate of Lametry and the adjoining
islet known as Rat Island. The line of junction is very
sharply defined ; it runs from the Sugarloaf on the eastern
coast to the cove called the Rattles on the southern. No
* The greatest length on the Admiralty Chart is 2'6 nautical miles, or
3 statute miles, minus 32 feet ; its greatest breadth is O'85 nautical miles, or
168 feet less than the statute mile. (Chanter's " Lundy Island.")
1 86
Geology.
veins of granite penetrate the shale, and, with the
exception of a slight induration at the place of contact,
there is little alteration, though the granite itself is greatly
altered for some ten or twelve feet, changing from grey
syenite to hornblende and hornblendic trap of schistose
structure.*
The nearest granitic outbreak of any size is at the
Cornish Moors and Dartmoor, nearly equi-distant from the
island, the former district being about thirty-five miles
away, and the latter a little over forty. The granite of
Lundy differs materially from both. There is a scanty
supply of schorl, though here and there " thin irregular
veins of a fine-grained granite substance (eurite ?) " are
found traversing the rock. Decomposition is rapid, though
this applies only to the coarse-grained variety, some of the
stone opened up at the now abandoned quarries on the
east coast being of such close, firm texture that it was used
in the construction of the Thames Embankment.
Although the shale is not penetrated by the granite, it is,
in common with the latter, traversed by narrow dykes of
greenstone (on the island called "basalt"), which intersect
the whole island from east to west in a very remarkable
and regular manner. Locally it is said that there are no
less than three hundred and sixty-five of these dykes — " one
for every day in the year;" but Mr. Etheridge gives only
sixty, which, he says, vary from one foot to thirty feet in
thickness.
There was a time when granite was considered the oldest
work in Mother Earth's fabric. But the geologist of to-day
knows better, and will tell you not only that Lundy slate
existed before Lundy granite, but will tell you why. He
says that the prior existence of the slate is proved by the
sharp way in which it is cut off by the intrusive granite
even contrary to its line of strike, " instead of being folded
* Rev. D. Williams. ("Journal Geol. Soc.," 1846.)
Climate. 1 8 7
or contorted round its base/' The slates are compared
with those about Ilfracombe and Mortehoe, both in character
and appearance, and, like them, they are much plicated and
intersected with veins of quartz.
Of minerals there appear to be few, and none worth
working. Attempts have been made at working the copper
existing at the junction of the slate and granite, but the
quantity was too small to give hopes of much profit. In the
granite Mr. Hall found small columnar crystals of yellowish
white beryl, felspar, fluor (locally called amethyst), garnet,
mica, rock crystal, schorl, and china clay, but the latter
valueless owing to its impregnation by iron. Traces of
sulphuret of zinc, copper pyrites, and magnetic iron ore
are found in veins of gossan in the slate, while a radiating
zeolite was noticed embedded in fragments fallen from the
great greenstone dyke which towers above the landing
place.*
The islanders — by the way, they only muster about three
score, all told — claim for the climate of Lundy a superiority
over that of the mainland, whether of England or Wales.
It is cooler, say they, in summer, and warmer in winter,
while there is less rain. This claim is borne out by the
register formerly kept by Mr. Heaven, the proprietor of
the island, which shows that the temperature is from seven to
twelve degrees lower in summer and higher in winter than
on the coasts adjacent. With regard to the rainfall, it has
been observed that occasionally Lundy appears to divert
the course of the clouds, which divide to right and left,
pouring their contents upon the coast to north and south,
leaving the island clear.f
* T. M. Hall's paper, "Geology, &c., of Island of Lundy." ("Trans.
Dev. Assoc.," iv., 612.)
f Chanter. He says that the comparative equableness of the climate
is no doubt owing to the island being exposed to the full influence of the
Gulf Stream.
1 88
Fogs.
But fogs are very prevalent. They do not so mucli
envelop the whole island as lie upon the upper part in reefs
or layers. I have gone out early in the morning to find the
lighthouse quite invisible, together with the whole of the
surface, while half-way down the hill to the landing place
the atmosphere has been perfectly clear, and the entire
coast line visible as far as the eye can reach. This
phenomenon is probably due to the same cause as that which
diverts the rain clouds — namely, the position of the
island across the mouth of the Channel, which would create
a draught, and keep the lower part free from vapour.
This prevalence of fog on the heights has, of course, the
effect of obscuring the lantern of the lighthouse, which
stands on or near to the highest point of the island.
Indeed, it is, to a great extent, useless. The Trinity Board
have accordingly — after a rather long experience of
seventy-six years — decided to discontinue the light in its
present position, and to erect in its stead two other light-
houses at a lower elevation — one at the north, the other at
the south end of the island. Of course there is a fog-signal
station, but this is separate from the lighthouse, and placed
in a niche half-way down the western cliffs. Anent this,
Mr. Chanter makes a remark as amusing as it is naive.
After stating that the amount of fog and cloud has been
probably over-rated, he says : " The longest continuous
period that the signal gun has been obliged to be fired
since its establishment has been seventy-two hours."
Rather an unfortunate illustration to bring forward to
prove that the Lundy fog is not so terrible an affair after
all, and one pities the unfortunate people subjected every
ten minutes for three weary days and nights to the sharp
report of the rocket. I found it quite sufficient to wake
me, while further sleep was out of the question. But
perhaps the islanders are used to it.
From its position, right in the "fairway" of one of the
Wrecks. — Inhabitants. 189
most busy estuaries in the world, one would have expected
Lundy to furnish a long tale of wrecks. The list, however,
is remarkably short. But there is a grim explanation. To
the question had they many wrecks, the fisherman replied,
" not many as they kno-wed of," adding, that he believed
that scores — nay, hundreds — of vessels had foundered off the
cliffs, leaving no soul to tell the story. I have myself, in
exploring the caves beneath the western precipices, found
quantities of wreckage ; in one case part of the mast of a
ship jammed in a dark crevice, while close by was a frag-
ment of the ornamental scroll work that had once decorated
the bow, the gaudy yellow and red paint still bright. Any
vessel, in fact, that drives ashore on Lundy has the poorest
of poor chances, for, except at the southern end, there is
no beach, while the water is deep all round the island.
Small as the population is now, it has been smaller, for
a hundred years ago Grose mentions but seven houses and
twenty-three inhabitants. But it has also been much
greater, being more than double the present number as
lately as 1871, while traces of dwellings in various parts of
the island prove that at one time it was greater still. And
Lundy has been inhabited from a time so remote that
no record remains of its ancient people but the sites of
certain round towers and their burial places — tumuli and
kistvaens — most of which are now levelled with the ground.
They are a kindly, civil race, these Lundy folk, unspoilt
by over-education and the thousand and one devices
invented by modern thought to " elevate the masses," or, in
other words, to persuade them, did they want persuasion,
that " Jack is as good as his master." One tourist, says
Mr. Chanter, " suggests it as interesting to a sociologist
to watch the mode of thought, ideas, and associations
which move people whose existence is spent so far from
the busy world, yet past which so many thousand vessels
are every year sailing." I think the sociologist would
i go Mr. Heaven.
have a quiet time of it. So far as I saw, the Lundy man
believes in God, Mr. Heaven, and himself, and of other
thoughts, ideas, and associations recks little.
Mr. Heaven is, in fact — or might be if he chose — almost
as much an autocrat as the Czar. The island is his abso-
lute property, and he owes fealty to none. The polity of
Lundy is indeed unique. Some, indeed, argue that it
forms no part of the realm at all, and, though Mr. Heaven
told me that he considers it subject to the laws, both
common and statute, it is altogether outside the Customs,
so that no duty is payable on any contraband, and it is
exempt from all taxes, both imperial and parochial. In
fact, it is in no parish, or even county, and, since the
Reformation, has been extra-diocesan as well. The
proprietor is not only king, but bishop, though, it is hardly
necessary to add, he does not arrogate to himself any
episcopal functions.
History repeats itself. Three hundred years ago Ralph
Holinshed wrote in his "Chronicles" of the island " hyght
Lundy " that " of thys islande the Parson is not onelye the
Captaine, but hath thereto weife* distresse and all other
commodities belonging to the same.'' It is curious that the
present proprietor is also a " parson," and, if the divine of
the days of Elizabeth, who was merely priest of the now
ruined church of St. Helen, f was dubbed "Captaine," surely
the man who owns the whole island has still more right to
the title. There was, and I believe still is, among some
people, a wild idea that the owner of Lundy has the
power of conferring knighthood ; but this is altogether a
myth, originating perhaps in the fact of the insular kingship.
Yet, in spite of the island being extra-parochial, the in-
habitants are admitted to the Parliamentary franchise. But
* Waif(?).
f The island when Holinshed wrote (1587) appears to have belonged to
the St. Ledgers of Annery, near Bideford.
Cultivation. 191
they have to poll atWoolfardisworthy (!),a parish not even on
the seaboard, but well inland at the back of Clovelly. This
singular arrangement seems totally inexplicable, unless, as a
relative of the proprietor suggested to me, " they want to
prevent us voting at all," which seems probable enough, for
who would cross fifteen miles of water and three or four of
land for the doubtful pleasure of recording a vote? Happy
Lundy, free from rates, free from taxes — free even, I sup-
pose, from those exasperating "death duties"! No
patient but determined overseer ever knocks at thy doors ;
the " gas and water " man knoweth thee not! Conservative
and Radical may elbow one another at the polling station
and shout themselves hoarse at the declaration of the poll,
but thou, like Gallio, carest for none of these things. An
island of the blest !
But not always such. No island can — as surely Lundy
can — lay claim to the term "historical" without having
experienced many of the ups and downs of chanceful
fortune. Lundy has been a nest of pirates — the retreat
of an assassin, who attempted the life of a king — the
proposed refuge, though he never reached it, of that king'^
grandson — a stronghold of Royalists — a headquarters of
French privateers — a convict settlement. But of these in
their place.
Barren as it looks to the casual visitor, the land is fertile
enough, and, where properly drained, makes a fair return
for the money and labour expended. Under the care of
Mr. Heaven and his father much has been done, and now
something like one half of the island is under cultivation.
With the exception of the proprietor's private grounds, the
whole is let to a farmer, in whose employ are most of the
men on the island, the fishing being confined to one
family, who rent it. at £10 a year. The crops are mostly
oats, barley, and turnips, and these are cultivated wholly
in the southern end of the island, the remainder being
1 92 An "Explosive"1 Story.
divided by three lines of wall, known as the Quarter, the Half
Way, and the Three Quarter Walls, into cattle and sheep
runs. Oats do remarkably well, yielding (according to Mr.
Chanter) seventy bushels to the acre with six feet of straw,
while from eight to twelve roots of swedes will often weigh
a hundredweight. Nothing of all this is exported, the
crops being grown for the stock only — cattle, horses,
sheep, and pigs, of all of which there is a good supply,
besides poultry. The beef and mutton are of excellent
quality, but the same cannot be said of the pork. A
Lundy ham — me teste — is not nice. Whether there be any
truth in the story that the pigs are fed on sea fowl I did
not inquire, but the remark of an acquaintance, " Whatever
you do, don't try the ham," received unexpected support
when I hit upon a quotation from a manuscript journal
written nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. There was
this significant note — " The flesh of the hogs bred in the
island cannot be eat ; the flesh is yellow and strong." My
companion actually declared that it got into his head !
This gentleman, by the way, was the innocent cause of
quite a little sensation. Being persuaded (as most people
are) that food in Lundy is doubtful both as to quantity and
quality, he brought a small supply of his own. Some time
after our departure I chanced to meet our landlady, who
was " over " for a change. After some conversation she
asked : " By the way, what was in that parcel that your friend
left in his bedroom ? " "Why ? " I inquired. " Well," she
said, " after you left, his room was taken by an elderly
gentleman. He found this parcel and sent for me. ' Mrs.
A.,' says he, ' what is this ? Don't touch it ; it may be an
explosive — one cannot be too careful nowadays.' I told
him that Mr. P. seemed a quiet sort of a gentleman, and
he seemed more satisfied, and presently takes out his knife
and cuts a hole in the paper. Out drops two white grains.
' It looks like rice, sir,' says I. He puts a grain in his
Seals. 193
mouth, while I tries the other. ' Get rid of it/ says he ;
' it's nasty — it's bitter. Here, take some water and rinse
out your mouth. And now carry the thing downstairs,' he
says, ' but be sure you don't go near the fire, and sprinkle
it over the ground outside.' But I wasn't going to do that,
so I locked it away till I could find out. Now, sir, what
was it ?" " Rice" I said ; " you had better eat it when you
get home ! "
Not only did the island once boast a larger population,
but a wider tract was cultivated. In several places towards
the north end there are remains of ancient fences. " That
it hath been tilled in former times," says Westcote, writing
early in the seventeenth century, " the furrows testify yet
plainly, but what commodities came thereof is not known,
neither will any man try again ; there is so little hope of
profit." It is a question, however, whether cultivation
might not be extended, for the soil is in most places fairly
deep and good, and capable of producing crops that would
support a much larger number of sheep and cattle than those
found on the island at the present time. The expense of
reclaiming the land would not be excessive, and, although
the exportation of stock to the mainland presents diffi-
culties, such difficulties are not insuperable, and, as land
on Lundy is cheap, the expense of raising and exporting
ought to be more than counterbalanced by the price
obtained.
The cliffs are honeycombed with rabbit burrows. This
animal, indeed, is so plentiful that leave to shoot him
is readily granted. The only other mammal is the seal —
Phoca vitulina, or the grey seal — which is eagerly sought
by sportsmen, as much perhaps for the danger attending
the hazardous descent over the cliffs as for any other
reason. But there is one fine old fellow who cannot be
caught. He is called by the islanders " Ponto," and they
say he is " as large as a young horse." Occasionally he
O
194 Rats.
may be seen disporting himself in the bay outside the
landing place.
And Lundy is the last refuge of the old English black
rat, which still inhabits Rat Island ; indeed, till about forty
years ago it was the only species on the island. Before
me is a letter written by Dibdin to the Rev. Dr. Cruwys
in which the rats have the honour of being referred to on
equal terms with vermin of another species. " In the
bay," he writes, " lies the island of Lundy, a place
remarkable for nothing but having harboured two sorts of
vermin ; the crews of petty French privateers, which,
from the inaccessibility of the situation, did, in the reign
of Queen Anne, incredible injury to our trade, and rats."
But the insatiable Norwegian rat has found its way even
to Lundy, and bids fair to exterminate the aborigine
altogether. The days of Mus rattus are numbered.
Another rat of a reddish colour and the shrew mouse
make up the short list of animals indigenous to Lundy.
" No other mice," writes Mr. Chanter, " nor moles, stoats,
or other vermin, nor any snakes or reptiles exist on the
island." The absence of snakes, say the inhabitants, is
due to St. Patrick, who called at Lundy en route for
Ireland ! *
But of birds there are many varieties, and some are of
rare species. Among spring visitants are the rose-coloured
pastor and the hoopoe ; the peregrine falcon and chough
are resident throughout the year ; the shallard owl, hooded
crow, and snow bunting arrive in autumn and winter,
while occasional visits are paid by the golden eagle, the
spotted eagle, the erne, osprey (formerly quite common) ;
the marsh, hen, and Montagu harrier; the subalpine warbler,
and other birds not often seen on the mainland. But the
large species are becoming scarce. For this we have to
thank the crews of pilot boats and tugs, who pick them
* Chanter.
Sea Birds. 195
off whenever they get the chance, and who have done
more to disturb the bird life of Lundy in the last twenty
years than the inhabitants have done in two hundred.
In the cold weather woodcock come in numbers, while
there are plenty of snipe, plover, wild duck, widgeon, and
teal, making the island quite " a paradise for sportsmen."*
And as for sea birds, the number must be seen to be
believed. There are always plenty, but in the breeding
season they literally ^swarm — as one islander put it, "you
can scarcely see the sky, sir." The sea is covered with
them, the land is covered with them ; they sit in regiments
and battalions on the ledges of rock. Here — amongst
many others — you will see the herring gull, the lesser and
great black-backed gull, the kittiwake, cormorant, oyster-
catcher, guillemot, razor-billed auk, gannet, Manx shear-
water, petrel, and puffin, or " Lundy parrot." Lundi, the
Icelandic name for a puffin, is thought, indeed, to be the
origin of the name of the island.
A hundred years ago sea birds were taken in large
numbers for the sake of their feathers. As lately as 1816
no less than 37Qlb. weight of feathers were plucked by
the women, though this is nothing to the quantity
formerly obtained, which, according to an old writer,
amounted annually to between lyoolb. and iSoolb. This
industry has now quite fallen into disuse, though a few
eggs are still taken and sold to visitors and on the mainland.
Although the Lundy boy thinks nothing of it, this employ-
ment looks exceedingly dangerous, the collector being
lowered over the cliffs to the rocks and ledges where the
birds deposit their eggs. In 1780 Mr. Hole, the farmer,
fell to the shore and was dashed to pieces, and, quite
recently, a little girl, while watching her brother, lost her
footing, and when the boy turned to look for her, she was
floating in the sea — dead.
* Chanter, who gives a long list of the birds in an appendix.
O 2
ig6 Crabs.
It has been noticed that each species of bird has its
own breeding and nesting ground. This seems particu-
larly the case with the guillemots and puffins, who occupy
different sides of a little bay at the north-west corner of
the island. If either bird dares to settle for a moment in
the quarters set apart for the other, he is attacked with the
greatest ferocity, and is lucky if he escapes with his life.
The fishing, as before stated, is in the hands of one man
at a rent. He states that it is fairly good, and his catches
are sufficient to keep himself and family. Most of the
shellfish are taken to the mainland. As communication is
very uncertain, the crabs and lobsters are left in the pots
till the time arrives for " hauling " them, the claws being
first put out of joint to prevent the captives fighting with and
perhaps devouring one another — the lobster, in particular,
being a most pugnacious gentleman. It seems cruel, does
it not ? But, as the fisher boy remarked, " they don't take
no notice of it." If eels get used to being skinned,
perhaps lobsters do not object to being maimed.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE ISLAND KINGDOM.
How and Where to Land — An Unpleasant Experience — The Gannet —
The Parsons' Predicament — The Voyage from Instow — The Landing
Place — The Road — Lametry — Rat Island — The Owner's Residence —
The Manor House, Church, and School — A Pleasant Service — Kistvaens
— A Gigantic Skeleton — The Lighthouse — St. Helen's Church.
" AND albeit there be not scarcelie fourtie householders in
the whole, yet the inhabitants there with huge stones
(alreadye provided) may keepe off thoiisandes of theyr
enemies, because it is not possible for any adversaries to
assayle them, but onelye at one place and wyth a most
daungerous entrance." So writes old Holinshed, and,
although Lundy is not quite so inaccessible as all that, still
it is a difficult place to get at, and sometimes even more
difficult to leave. For the only landing place worthy the
name is a shingle beach on the south-eastern side, a little
semi-circular bay, which, though open to the easterly
gales, is sheltered from the more prevalent westerly and
south-westerly by the peninsula of Lametor, or Lametry,
and Rat Island. I say the only landing place worthy of
the name, for the one on the western side is of little
account. For here there is no beach whatever, and only
when the sea is quite smooth is it possible for a boat to
approach and land passengers at the foot of a shelving
precipice, up which they must climb by a break-neck
path.
In an easterly gale, however, this difficult path is the
only means of getting on to or off the island. For then the
igS Landing Place.
landing place is quite inaccessible. In a marvellously
short space of time there rises a nasty surf, and woe to
the boat that " poops a sea," or gets broadside on to the
broken crests. And the sea rises so suddenly, too. I
have left Clovelly in a calm, but, before reaching Lundy,
have found a sea so heavy that the captain of the steamer
refused to allow his boats to be lowered, and we had to
be taken off in the fisherman's punt. As we passed to
leeward of the steamer, a big sea swept round her stern,
and my companion — a sailor, too — remarked : " I think it is
about time to take off my mackintosh," and suited the
action to the word. I thought so, too, and followed his
example. But we did not know our boatman. With one
stroke of his oar he brought the boat bow on to the sea,
and we floated over in safety. Ultimately he landed us
scarcely sprinkled, but I, for one, do not want another such
quarter of an hour, and should certainly think twice before
venturing to land on Lundy Island in an easterly breeze,
even under the charge of a Lundy man.
Of course as long as the east wind continues no one
with heavy luggage can leave the island, for the path on
the western side wants not only feet, but hands. Again,
even if you do get down to the boat, the steamer may
not come round to take you off. Still, if you can reach
the Ilfracombe steamer, which in summer time visits the
island twice a week, you are free ; if this be impossible,
you must take your chance of getting a passage across to
Instow in the little cutter which once a week, " when the
weather permits," brings the mails. And the Gannet is a
fine seaworthy craft, commanded, too, by as handsome a
son of North Devon as you will find between Glenthorne
and Marsland — a skipper tall and straight and sunburnt,
with brown beard and clear blue eye that has looked a
roaring sou'-wester square in the face many a time
between Bideford Bar and Lundy. The Gannet sails
" The Gannet" 199
from Instow every Thursday with the mails (a very light
cargo) — oftener, if she can get enough passengers to make
it worth while ; and, if you prefer a yachting trip to the
voyage by steamer, you will find few so pleasant as a
passage by the Gannet. But remember one thing — a
steamer is like a train, more or less punctual ; on a sail-
ing vessel can be placed no reliance whatever. It is all
very well with a stiff breeze on the quarter, but there are such
things as calms, not to speak of contrary tides. I have known
the Gannet take ten hours doing the twenty-three miles
from Instow, and have been a passenger myself when she
has taken nearly eight. And the steamer gets there in
two.
In earlier days, when steam was undreamt of, and no
one ever thought of wanting letters, Lundy might, and
sometimes did, become a prison for weeks. It is related
that on one occasion a party of half a dozen Devonshire
parsons started on an excursion to the island, meaning to
return well before the following Sunday. But fate ruled
otherwise ; the wind shifted — and, when Sunday came, half
a dozen Devonshire congregations mourned the absence
of their pastors. Time went on, and another Sabbath
dawned. But the six churches were again empty, and the
parsons had rest from their labours. Then there was the
bank clerk who, starting on a Saturday to spend Sunday
on the island, found himself the sport of the capricious
wind. His anguish when he rose on Bank Holiday
Monday and found an easterly gale driving the waves far
up the beach was really quite distressing. He made
up his mind for dismissal, but the manager, I fancy,
proved magnanimous. Perhaps he had been on Lundy
himself.
But, even if the visitor be cut off from his kind in the
flesh, he may still hold converse with them in the spirit.
For Lundy has a telephone, and he may "talk" with
200 " The Gannet"
Appledore and have any message he likes telegraphed on.
But the best laid plans of mice and men fail occasionally,
and I have known the telephone break down altogether in
a thunderstorm, and we were then cut off from the mainland
as completely as if Lundy were an island in the Pacific.
Perhaps enough has been said by way of introduction.
Let us now approach the island more nearly and explore
its frowning cliffs, its wave-worn caves, its curious natural
features, and last, but not least, its interesting ruins and
relics of bygone days. The Gannet is running up to her
peak the flag bearing the crown and the letters R.M.,
signifying that she has on board the half-dozen letters that
constitute Lundy correspondence, and is about to weigh
for what a facetious islander calls " the Kingdom of
Heaven" We will get a boat to put us on board, for the
tide is ebbing and the wind is fair, and it will be no ten
hours' passage to-day.
With much nautical chanting, the mainsail creaks slowly
up the mast ; with less labour, but still tunefully, the fore-
sail is set; pipe in mouth, " Cap'n " Dark takes the tiller,
the anchor is weighed, and the vessel's head swings round
seaward. Instow and Appledore slide astern, then
Braunton Lighthouse, then the Pebble Ridge and the sand-
hills, and we are ducking to the rollers of the Bar. In a
few minutes these, too, are left behind ; Baggy Point opens
out on the starboard, Hartland on the port bow ; the villas
of Westward Ho drop astern, and the tower of Northam
Church stands out against the sky. Then Morte Point
creeps out beyond the yellow sands of Woolacombe, and a
minute later the Pharos of Bull Point. The curling waves
off the mouth of the estuary settle down into a solemn
heave — the pulse of the Atlantic. We are at sea.
Out of the western horizon Lundy rises like a wall, a
barrier from four to five hundred feet high set against the
onslaught of old Ocean. While we look the Gannet skirts
The Voyage. 201
a floating mass of sea birds. The nearer ones dive, but not
till the very last moment; those further away take no notice
whatever — indeed, half of them appear to be asleep. Look-
ing over the bulwarks one could, if the surface were calmer,
trace the course of the guillemots beneath the waves for
some distance. They work their wings as much as their
legs, and appear, indeed, to be flying under water.
And now streaks of grey appear on the face of the
eastern cliffs — the heaps of refuse shot down the slopes
from the granite quarries, a scar upon the fair brow of
Lundy. Then the lighthouse shows up, a white pillar
against the blue sky ; Rat Island separates itself from the
peninsula of Lametry ; and beyond rises the sharp cone of
the " Shutter." " And that is Marisco Castle, sir," says the
skipper, pointing, ten minutes later, to a dark square mass
on the cliff above Lametry ; " and there, in the hollow, is
the Squire's house, and above, the church and farm — we
shall be in in another hour." And in another hour we are
" in " — three hours and twenty minutes from Braunton light
— and the anchor plunges into the clear green depths, a
few cables' length from the landing place.
Before us, to the right, stretch the great slopes of the
" Sidelands " — a glacis of fern and heather — ending abruptly
a hundred feet above the sea in precipice. To the left is
rocky Rat Island, with its head of greensward and feet of
black rock round which the tide swirls like a mill race.
Overhead, above the precipice faced with its great dyke of
" basalt," frowns Marisco Castle, for centuries the strong-
hold of pirate nobles. But, while we are looking, the punt
is hauled alongside, in go the ridiculous "mails," the
passengers follow, and in a few minutes we step ashore
at the so-called landing place.
This landing place lies at the foot of the precipice, and
is, as I have already said, a beach of shingle, or occasionally,
after a gale, of boulders, and now and again of bare rock.
2O2 Landing Place.
When an easterly gale renders landing on this beach out of
the question, it is sometimes possible to land at a little
cove under Rat Island (which, except at high tide, is not
an island at all). But this entails a toilsome ascent by a
narrow track over the side of Lametry, and an equally
difficult descent to the beach, before the main body of the
island can be approached. There is no pier, or sign of a
pier, anywhere. Nor is there much life about this landing
place. The fisherman and his sons perhaps, hauling their
lobster pots ; perchance a stray visitor basking in the sun,
but no cottage meets the eye. One sees but a limekiln, a
coal store hewn out of the solid rock, one or two sheds
bleached and weather-beaten, a few boats hauled high and
dry up the slipway at the bottom of the road that winds up
the cliff slope into the " interior."
This road, the work of the late Mr. Heaven, was the
first on the island — and will perhaps be the last. It runs
through the hamlet about the manor farm, and on to the
cottages of the abandoned granite quarries, after which it
resolves itself into a grassy track, and, though it is possible
to drive over the whole length to the north end, the
experience is scarcely a smooth one, and here and there
the "road" almost vanishes altogether.
The peninsula of Lametry is connected with Lundy
proper by a sharp ridge of slate. Lametry is a grass-
topped hill, rising abruptly from the shore on either side to
a height of some two hundred feet. Beneath is a large
cavern, occasionally used as a receptacle for goods to be
taken away by " Dark's boat." It is called the Devil's
Kitchen. And here it may be mentioned that the Ancient
Enemy has set his mark on Lundy in fashion most unmis-
takable. He has his Kitchen, his Limekiln, his Chimney,
and his Slide — the latter a tremendous slope of smooth
granite in the face of the western cliffs. " What do you
know of your Ancient Enemy ? " asked a Sunday School
Rat Island. 203
teacher of a Dartmoor peasant. " Please, mum, he lives
to Widdicombe," replied the child. A Lundy child surely
would be justified in saying : " Please, mum, he lives to
Lundy." Among the weed-covered rocks outside the
Devil's Kitchen, the cable from the telephone station
overhead by Marisco Castle, winds like a metallic snake
into the sea.
Rat Island is connected with Lametry by a bank of
shingle. The island is full of caves and fissures ; we can
almost see the one nearest us from the landing place. At
the extreme western corner, as we approach it, the light
shines through a hole — it can scarcely perhaps be called a
cave — in the cliff, a hole that at a distance looks like an
"eyelet" hole, but which is in fact quite large enough to
admit the body of a man. In fact, I have passed through
it myself. Further on there is a cavern, or tunnel, pene-
trating the island from one side to the other. The length
must be about three hundred feet, and the height perhaps
thirty. Except to those who choose to wade, the passage
is impassable, as the floor is very uneven, and several pools
stretch from side to side. At high tide it is full of water,
and one can imagine the hurly-burly in its recesses when
the sea enters driven by an Atlantic gale. What a rush,
what a roar, what a thundering echo along the roof, what
flying clouds of spume !
To return to the landing place — or, rather, to the road
leading from it to the top of the island. At the bottom of
the ascent, by the limekiln, is a large whitewashed slab of
granite inscribed — " T.H. Landing Place 1819." The
initials of course stand for the name of the late pro-
prietor/* and the date is that of the construction of the
road and slipway. The road, a really creditable piece of
* This is not Mr. Heaven's title. I am not aware that he has one. Still
some designation must be given him as an alternative to his name. The
islanders call him the " Squire."
204 The Villa.
engineering, is cut in the face of a precipitous slope some
four hundred feet high, and is the successor to a bridle path,
once the only approach to the summit. The declivity is
covered thickly with bracken, bramble, and heather, while
here and there a cluster of honeysuckle waves in the
breeze, or falls gracefully over the brow of some rugged
crag. Along the seaward side runs a low wall, a very
necessary protection, for any vehicle falling over would
meet with certain destruction. Here and there, in a recess
among the rocks, an oak or two has managed to struggle
into existence, and, below the first bend, there is quite a
respectable pine. But, as a rule, the island is treeless, and
it is only in the combe above that trees exist in any
number.
In this combe — Millcombe it is called, because there was
once a mill there — is the Villa, Mr. Heaven's house. As
we turn the corner it comes into view, a small, bare-looking
mansion, covered with stucco the better to keep out the
lashing rains, and with old-fashioned narrow paned windows,
for plate-glass would never do on Lundy. At the back the
combe head sweeps round in a bold semicircle, and below
the line of furze and heather are winding walks, and a
semi-wild garden or shrubbery gay with hydrangeas — a
plant which, in the moist atmosphere of Lundy, flourishes
exceedingly. On the left the house finds additional shelter
from a grove of oak and ash, all, I believe, planted by the
present proprietor or his father. Over this, on the brow of
the combe, appears the spire and east end of the little iron
church in which every Sunday afternoon Mr Heaven him-
self ministers to the spiritual wants of his subjects. Near
it is the school where the " Squire's " sister teaches, or, at
any rate, used to teach. A terrace runs along the front of
the house, and below this the ground falls rapidly to the
entrance gates and the kitchen garden.
This garden speaks eloquently to the power of the
Manor House, 205
wind. Besides being surrounded by a stone wall, it is
subdivided into three parts by other walls of the same
height. Without this precaution Mr Heaven would get
very few vegetables, for the easterly winds cut nearly every-
thing to pieces. Indeed, a Lundy gale has been known,
not only to strip the ground of every plant upon it, but
even to rip up the turf and lay bare the solid rock ! I
myself have seen the rain rebound from the outer walls of
this garden in clouds of spray.
Turning from the house and passing the Bungalow, a
picturesque cottage — as far as anything built of corrugated
iron can be picturesque — inhabited by a manservant, the
road reaches the brow and turns sharp across an open
field to the Manor House — which is the island farm and
store — and cottages adjacent. Here we shall be glad to
refresh ourselves after our voyage, for, short though it has
been, the sea air is a wondrous appetiser. The Manor
House, moreover, is the Lundy " Hotel," and here you may
have bed and board for a very moderate charge indeed.
It is the largest dwelling on the island. In it, and in
the row of labourers' cottages at the back, live more than
half the population. It forms the nucleus of the only
hamlet — if hamlet it can be called — the only other inhabited
houses being those belonging to the lighthouse people, the
signalman, and a couple of cottages out towards the
quarries. The store is the general shop. Here the
islanders can get all the necessaries of life and a few of its
luxuries. Here also are retailed beer and spirits (for which
no licence is required, except permission from Mr. Heaven)
— in short, the store is the Lundy bar and lounge.
In our ascent we have worked round to the back of the
villa, which now lies beneath our feet in the depths of the
combe, so that the church and school face us. Both are
small, but the latter is no larger than a sitting-room. Still
it is quite large enough to accommodate the few children
2o6 School Service.
on Lundy. I well remember the scene there one Sunday
afternoon. Mr. Heaven, having met with an accident, was
unable to conduct the usual service in the church, and a
layman visitor, zealous for good works, came to the rescue.
The islanders assembled in force, and the room was full.
It was a perfect day, warm and sunny, and from my seat,
near the open door, I could look down the slopes of the
combe, shaggy with gorse and fern, to a sea of deepest
green-blue, scarcely marked by a ripple. Far away the
white sails of a barque gleamed pearly through the autumn
haze, and a gull wheeled lazily over the cliffs. I had
scarcely taken it all in when a hymn was given out, and
the voice of Thomas, the fisherman, rose mightily as he led
his fellow islanders. There was no one to play the
harmonium, but everyone did his best. All joined in — the
" Squire's " party from the house, a visitor or two, the
people from the farm, the lighthouse keepers, the labourers,
their wives and daughters. As for our layman, he gave us
just the sermon for the place and occasion, plain and to the
point, and, out of consideration to our infirmities and the
lovely weather, not too long. And, as we filed out into
the sunlit air and wound round the brow of the combe, one
of us at least thought that a service in Lundy schoolroom,
despite the want of ritual, was quite as beneficial, if not
outwardly so attractive, as " evensong " in some stately
church on the mainland, interpreted by the aid of Gregorian
music and all the glories of a surpliced choir. But, alas !
we are feeble creatures, and hunger for " some new thing."
Perchance such a service, often repeated, would cease to
appeal to us as it did on that August afternoon, and we
should crave for stained glass, cassock, and organ.
A large area at the back of the farm is covered with
outbuildings, not in the best condition — in fact, they look as
though they had been put up with a view to greater agri-
cultural developments than have as yet made their appear-
Hubba. — Skeletons. 207
ance and then neglected. They are all, as is the Manor
House itself, of modern date — some, indeed, erected within
the last few years. It was while some of these " improve-
ments" were in progress that the workmen made a curious
discovery. While digging foundations for the wall of the
rickyard, they came upon a pair of kistvaens, or stone
coffins, built of granite, and each covered with a large slab.
The larger grave was loft, in length, and provided with a
lump or pillow of granite, hollowed out for the reception of
the head of a gigantic skeleton which lay within. The feet
rested on another block. The smaller cist, which also con-
tained a skeleton, was but 8ft. long, and differed from the
other in having no head or foot rest. Both were covered
with a pile of limpet shells.
Mr. Heaven was sent for, and the skeletons carefully
measured. The larger had a stature of 8ft. 2in. Mr.
Heaven was present the whole time, and not only
saw the measurement taken, but, as he himself told me,
saw one of the men place the shin-bone of the skeleton
against his own, when it reached from his foot half-way up
his thigh, while the giant's jaw-bone covered not only his
chin, but beard as well. The skeleton in the smaller cist,
although that of a very tall person, was thought little of
beside that of the giant. Mr. Heaven, who has some know-
ledge of anatomy, considered it to be that of a woman.
Close by seven other skeletons were discovered, but
these were of ordinary stature, and buried without stone
coverings. At the end of the line lay a great quantity of
the bones of men, women, and children, buried in one com-
mon grave. Some glass and copper beads and one of gold
were found with these bones, and a few fragments of pot-
tery. Some of these were preserved, and the bones were
then covered up.
As Mr. Chanter says, "it is most difficult to assign an
era or to account for this sepulture ; the remains of women
2o8 Lighthouse.
and children precluding the idea of its betokening the slain
in battle, but rather the indiscriminate slaughter of an
entire population." Still, as he points out, this does not
explain the peculiar character and contents of the kistvaens.
These he refers to the Celtic period. But did the Celts
produce such giants as the pair interred in these stone
coffins? I fancy not. Mr. Heaven exclaimed, when he
saw the larger skeleton, " the bones of Hubba the Dane !"
and the proportions are certainly rather Scandinavian than
Celtic. Undoubtedly it was the custom of the Danes to
remove their more honoured dead, and Lundy was "the
nearest point to which the defeated army and ships could
retreat." f
A rough road leads from the Manor House to the light-
house, about three furlongs distant. It stands on ground
rising a little above the table-land — an elevation dignified
rather absurdly with the name of Beacon Hill. It is said
to be the highest point on the island, five hundred and
twenty-five feet above the sea. The tower rises another
eighty. It has two lights ; the upper revolving once in
sixteen minutes, with flashes every two minutes ; the
lower, which casts a steady stream of light westward, is
fixed. The former light is visible to a great distance,
probably more on account of its elevation than for its
brilliancy, though this is very great. I have heard that the
lantern is the loftiest about the British coasts, and that it
may be seen from the level of the sea for thirty miles.
To the east of the lighthouse and within a few yards of
the keepers' houses is the burial ground and the remains
of the ancient church of St. Helen. This burial ground is
of great antiquity, and, although tombs are not numerous,
the islanders have been buried there from time immemorial,
as well as many a victim of the sea. It is a wild God's acre,
and, though surrounded by a dry stone wall, is swept by every
* Vide under Appledore. f Chanter.
Church. 209
wind that blows, while over the part beyond the graves
bracken rustles in the gale.
Though the walls have sunk to low grass-covered
mounds, the shape of the church is still distinct. The
entrance was on the south. Its dimensions are 25ft. fin. by
1 2ft. gin. Within the walls are the graves of the Heaven
family. According to tradition, Lord Saye and Sele — of
whom later — was also buried there, beneath the west
window. It is somewhat singular that the tenant, Mr.
Hole, who dug up his supposed bones (which he deposited
without the walls), should have shortly after been laid in the
same grave.
The ecclesiastical history of Lundy is somewhat barren,
and no certain date can be assigned to the erection of this
church. One authority states — on what grounds I know
not — that it was dedicated to St. Helena by Offa, King of
Mercia. The remains, however, cannot date from so early
a period as the eighth century ; the church is much more
likely to have been built about the end of the thirteenth,
when Sir Geoffrey Dinan, Lord of Hartland, came into
possession of the island. At any rate, it is reasonable to
suppose that either he or the monks of that rich and
powerful abbey would have done something for the
spiritual wants of the islanders, and, as Mr. Chanter
suggests, these wants were no doubt attended to by one of
the brethren. The monks, however, did not officiate long.
Dinan only held the island for about five years, and in the
reign of Edward the Second it appears to have become a
parish, for in the Exeter Diocesan Registers, under date of
June, 1325, there is an entry showing that Walter le Bot
was presented to the church of St. Helen of " Londai "
by Hugh le Despenser. But after some thirty years the
registers are silent, and all we know is that at the
suppression of the monasteries the patronage of the rectory
of Lundy belonged to Cleve Abbey. Probably from this
2io Church.
time regular services ceased to exist, and, although the
church was used till the middle of the last century, there
were no priests of Lundy, except such as the lord of the
island for the time being may have seen fit to supply. It
is lucky for the islanders that Mr. Heaven is a clergyman.
Had he been a layman, and careless of such matters,
Lundy might have been without any religious ceremonial
at all.
CHAPTER XV.
FROM MARISCO CASTLE TO JOHN O' GROAT'S.
Marisco Castle — -The Mariscos — A Turbulent Race — Despenser and Edward
the Second — A Nest of Pirates — Benson's Cave — Benson and his
Villainies — The Rattles — The Seals' Cave — The Devil's Limekiln —
The Shutter— Wreck of the Galleon— Friar's Garden— Quarter Wall
— The Earthquake — The Punchbowl — The Cheeses — Jenny's Cove
— The Gladstone Rock — The Round Tower — The Devil's Slide —
John o' Groat's.
AT the southern end of the field through which the road
passes to the Manor House, just where it bends down-
wards to the combe, is a wicket gate in the stone wall.
This opens on to a footpath leading to Marisco Castle, the
most interesting building on the island. No two objects on
Lundy can be ver\ far apart, and a walk of about seven
minutes will bring us to the grim shell of what was once
one of the most dreaded fortalices in the West of England.
Marisco Castle stands close to the brink of the most
perpendicular precipice on the island, a sheer wall of rock
with a face almost smooth, so even is the dyke of green-
stone laid like a slab against it. This dyke cuts right
through the narrow neck, and on the western side may be
seen beneath the water running out to sea. The castle
now consists of a building which was, I suppose, the keep.
It is nearly square, with a frontage of about sixty feet to the
south-east, and it is some twenty-five feet in height. At
each corner is a round turret, or its remains, and the
battlements can still be traced, though the spaces between
have long since been filled in with masonry. The wall at
P 2
212 Marisco Castle.
the basement is said to be nine feet thick, and the whole
building, even after the lapse of many centuries, has an
appearance of great strength.
On the platform in front, which is defended by a wall
more or less ruinous, are the remains of three small
rectangular buildings, which appear to have been inha-
bited, if not built, -by the notorious Benson and his
servants, while his convicts were quartered in the castle
itself.* In the centre of the platform stand the hut and
flagstaff of the signalman, and — strange juxtaposition of
antiquity and modern enterprise — the poles carrying
the telephone wire may be seen passing inland to their
terminus at the store behind the Manor House. From this
platform the outer wall of the fortress runs along the edge
of the cliff northwards for some two hundred feet to a deep
ditch which skirts the wall along that part of the cliff
where the fall of the ground is less abrupt than elsewhere.
At intervals the line of wall is broken by small square
chambers pierced with loopholes — apparently for sentinels.
There are traces of a similar wall along the slope on the
western side of the castle, where there are also other ruins.
The landward defences have disappeared, but Mr. Chanter
says that " there appears to have been a barbican or outer
tower to protect the entrance on the land side."
Within, the scene is dismal in the extreme. The interior
has been divided up into cottages, now empty and dilapi-
dated. They are built against the walls, leaving a small
space or quadrangle vacant in the centre to which entrance
is gained by a rickety gate. By these vulgar innovations
the appearance of the castle has been so altered that it is
impossible to judge the original plan. Nothing of much
interest is to be seen with the exception of the old stone
stairs which now do duty for one of the cottages.
Of the date of the erection of Marisco Castle no record
* See next chapter.
The Manscos. 213
exists. It is probably seven hundred years old at the very
least, for we know that it was held in the reign of Henry
the Second by one Jordan de Marisco. This Sir Jordan
was a scion of the noble house of Montmorency, or, as the
English and Irish branches were called, Monte Marisco or
de Marisco, a family of power and position under the
Plantagenet kings. Jordan himself was related to the
Royal Family, having married the daughter of Henry's
natural brother, Hamelin Plantagenet. He appears,
however, to have been a troublesome subject, and Henry, by
way of punishment, gave his island to the Knights
Templars, whose memory is still perpetuated in the grim
Templar Rock — a wonderful likeness to a human face — on
the east side of the island. But the Templars cared not
for Lundy, and Marisco bid the King defiance. In 1199,
Sir William, Sir Jordan's son, openly rebelled, and King
John retaliated by confirming his father's grant. But
again the monk-knights did nothing towards obtaining
possession, apparently preferring a money payment
instead, as, fourteen years later, we find it recorded that
the Treasury awarded them £10 for the island, and in 1220
a further sum of a hundred shillings " in lieu and full
recompence for it." So little was Lundy valued in those
days.
Meanwhile, Sir William de Marisco enjoyed himself after
the fashion of the turbulent nobles of that turbulent time,
raiding the coasts adjacent, and mocking at all attempts to
dispossess him. Aids were levied upon the counties ot
Devon and Cornwall for the siege of Lundy, and for the
defence of the ports and harbours against this obstreperous
knight, but apparently without result, there being no
evidence that Gulielmus de Marisco^ as he is called in the
records, was actually dispossessed, or, indeed, much
hindered in his doings. Finally he went over to the
French, whose king — Louis — was fitting out an armament
214 The Mariscos.
to enforce his demands upon the English Crown. He was
captured in the naval engagement of August 24, 1217,
when Hubert de Burgh, the justiciary, with but forty ships,
scattered a fleet nearly double that number off Calais.
But, instead of hanging him as a traitor, he was, for some
inscrutable reason, forgiven, and returned in triumph to
his island eyrie. Yet he showed his gratitude by again
revolting, was fined three hundred marks, and deprived of
his island — whether nominally or actually I cannot tell —
until the fine was satisfied.
The next Marisco — Geoffrey — was little better. But his
reign was short, and he fell at Kilkenny in a descent on
Ireland. To him succeeded the greatest ruffian of all —
another William — who, although a younger son, appears to
have taken possession. This was the gentleman whom
the chronicler Thomas Wyke, Canon of Oseney, dubbed
pirate,* and to piracy he added, or endeavoured to add,
murder. For one night, as King Henry lay at Woodstock,
a man, disguised as a clerk, forced his way into the palace,
and, after slaying a priest in the King's presence, would
have slain the King himself had not assistance been at
hand. This is one account ; anothert relates that he
stumbled by chance upon the bedchamber of one of the
Queen's maids of honour, whose shrieks led to his
detection and capture. At his execution the assassin
confessed himself to be the emissary of de Marisco, and
died glorying in his crime, " not caring," as Holinshed
says, " what had become of himself so he might have
dispatched his purpose."
The crime was fatal to de Marisco. The timid King,
fearful that another attempt would be made, urged on by
his nobles and moved by the complaints of merchants
whose cargoes were seized, as well as by the lamentations
* "Gul.de Mareies pyraticam exercens occupavit Lundey," &c. (Chanter,
p. 62.) f Matthew Paris.
Edward II. and Lundy. 215
of the people living along the seaboard of the Bristol
Channel, ordered the capture of the island stronghold by
fair means or foul. Fair means not prevailing, the island
was taken by stratagem, and Sir William and sixteen of his
followers seized and executed. The end of this pirate
noble was ignominious to the last degree. He was dragged
from Westminster to the Tower, and there hung, his bowels
drawn and burnt, and the quartered body sent to the four
principal cities of the kingdom. Thus ended the reign of
these corsairs of the Severn Sea. Lundy was declared
forfeited to the King, and Henry de Traci appointed
Keeper.
The subsequent history of the castle is the history of the
island. It was held for the King by various persons — a
descendant of the Mariscos even holding it for awhile —
until the reign of Edward the Second, when it became the
property of the favourite, Hugh le Despenser. When the
last chapter in the life of that unhappy monarch opened —
when, deserted by Isabella and hunted down by the Barons,
he sought a refuge — his thoughts turned to Lundy.
To Londi, which in Sabrin's mouth doth stand,
Carried with hope (still hoping to find ease),
Imagining it were his native land,
England itself; Severn, the narrow seas,
With this conceit (poor soul !) himself doth please.
And sith his rule is over-ruled by men,
On birds and beasts he'll king it o'er again.
'Tis treble death a freezing death to feel,
For him on whom the sun hath ever shone ;
Who hath been kneeled unto, can hardly kneel,
Nor hardly beg what once hath been his own.
A fearful thing to tumble from a throne !
Fain would he be king of a little isle ;
All were his empire bounded in a mile.
Accompanied by the son of his favourite, he travelled in
haste to Chepstow, and thence sailed down the Wye for the
216 Lundy Pirates.
Bristol Channel. But Lundy was more difficult to reach
then than now, and the royal fugitive got no further than
Neath. Soon after both he and Despenser met their
deaths at the hands of Mortimer, the Queen's paramour,
and Lundy once more reverted to the Crown.
From this time forward the island passed to various
grantees of the Crown, most of them well known in the
history of their country, but for whom no place can be
found here. " In most instances,'' writes Mr. Chanter, " it
was held almost as a sovereignty under absolute grant from
the Crown, or by military tenure, it being rated as the
tenth of a knight's fee . . . but there is no distinct
evidence when it became a fee simple Fief (as it is now)
transmissible by descent or mere deed of transfer."
I am afraid that the lords of Lundy were not only " non-
resident," but cared very little about their possession, for,
early in the seventeenth century, Marisco Castle once more
became a nest of pirates. These miscreants haunted the
mouth of the Channel and captured vessel after vessel.
They were of all nationalities — the scum of the seas. One
of them, a Captain Salkeld, actually annexed the island,
calling himself king. Among these pirates, though not of
them, there dwelt a man once of good position, but now
despised as a traitor. This was Sir Lewis Stukeley, the
man who betrayed Sir Walter Raleigh to his death. Sick
of life, and sinking beneath the weight of public scorn, he
retired to Lundy and there died.
The pirates got worse, and ultimately men-of-war had
to be sent to convoy the shipping up Channel. Then
Charles the First appointed Thomas Bushell Governor,
who not only drove off the pirates, but held the island
for the King, when a year or two later he fell out with his
Parliament. Then Lundy was claimed by Lord Saye and
Sele as his property, and the Parliament summoned
Bushell to surrender. Bushell submitted the matter to the
Pirates. 217
King, who, in effect, told him to do as he liked,* and
Bushell gave in. But by-and-by Cromwell's shadow fell
upon Lord Saye, and, disgusted at having to acknowledge
him master, he retired to his island and there spent the
remainder of his days in voluntary exile. The story of
the discovery, or supposed discovery, of his remains I have
told already.
So Lundy again reverted to piracy, and became the pest
of all mariners bound to or from " Bristowe." Many are
the tales told of the doings of these buccaneers — one in
particular will be found related further on. But the history
of Lundy is reaching a length never intended. After passing
into the possession of the Gowers, the Warrens, the Palks,
and the Clevelands of Tapeley near Instow, the island
kingdom was purchased by Sir Vere Hunt, whose son sold
it to John Maltravers and W. Stiffe. From them it was
bought by Mr. Heaven, the father of the present
proprietor.
Marisco Castle not only occupied a position of great
natural strength, but commanded an extensive stretch of
coast. Of the island itself, it overlooks the whole of the
southern and south-western end — Lametry Peninsula, Rat
Island, the landing place, and the bay called the Rattles,
where an enemy, more than usually daring, might possibly
have been tempted to scale the broken cliffs. Looking
northward, the warder had beneath his eye more than half
the eastern shore from the landing place to the Gull Rock
off Tibbett's Hill, one of the loftiest points of the island,
and itself apparently fortified, though whether by the
Mariscos or some other and earlier race we cannot tell.
For hard by are the remains, or, rather, the site, of one of
those mysterious round towers which have excited a greater
* Vide the correspondence in Chanter's " Lundy Island."
2i 8 Benson.
amount of discussion, and have been the subject of more
critical research, than almost any other monument of the
" dark ages."
Immediately beneath Marisco Castle, on the very brink
of the cliff, is a large chamber hewn out of the rock. A
wall of granite masonry supporting a great slab forms the
entrance. The chamber is about sixty feet in length by
six in width, and perhaps double that in height, and was
no doubt connected in some way with the castle, either as
a store or possibly as a dungeon, though for the latter
purpose it seems rather large. Locally it is known as
Benson's Cave.
This Benson was tenant of the island in 1748, under
lease from the then owner, Lord Gower. He was a well-
to-do Bideford man, and at one time sat in Parliament as
member for Barnstaple. Among his other speculations, he
took up a contract for the transportation of convicts, but,
instead of conveying them to the plantations in America, he
landed them on Lundy. By day they worked as his
servants in building walls, and executing other improve-
ments; at night he shut them up in Marisco Castle. He
thus saved the expense of labourers, and might have
thriven had he not added smuggling to his sins. For this
he was heavily fined and his estate near Bideford estreated
in default of payment.
Benson went rapidly from bad to worse. Amongst other
little villainies, he insured a vessel's cargo, and then caused
her to be put back to Lundy, where he stored the cargo —
probably in the very cave that bears his name — and then
had the ship scuttled and claimed the insurance money !
The matter, however, leaked out ; the captain and his
confederate were hung, and Benson had to fly to Portugal.
So ended the career of the last scoundrel of Marisco.
And now, with a parting glance at the wild scene below,
we must turn our backs on the old ruin and take our way
Seals' Cave. 219
towards the western cliffs. In a few minutes we reach the
Rattles, framed in a glorious amphitheatre of purple slopes,
rough with rock, and descending at a sharp angle to the
sea. Here the shale ends and the granite begins. At the
junction, some holes in the cliff mark the spot where a trial
was made for copper — a trial that, as I have already said,
resulted in success so limited that the undertaking had to
be abandoned.
Beneath, at the western end of the cove, is the Seals'
Cave, the headquarters on Lundy of Phoca vitulina. It is
possible at low water to reach it from above, but the
scramble is not without danger, and it is much better to
take a boat, though the cave must only be approached in
calm weather. I once rowed completely round the island,
and on this occasion paid a visit to the cavern. The tide,
however, was high, and, as we were without candles, we did
not feel disposed to penetrate far into the pitch-dark
recesses. Even a seal, timid as he is, is not a desirable
personage to encounter in the dark, and old " Ponto "
might have given us a very nasty nip. A strong animal
odour issued from the vault within, and the place was
altogether so dark and uncanny that we were glad to back
the boat out into the sunlight.
Mr. Chanter describes the cave as a vault sixty feet in
height and twelve in width, opening through a narrow
passage into a large and lofty chamber to which the
animals resort. As many as five have been shot there at
one time by adventurous sportsmen, which is a good record,
as the seal, when disturbed, at once makes for the water,
and will dive beneath the boat and be out to sea before
you know that he is anywhere near. The natives, by the
way, have the most exalted idea of the ferocity of these
creatures. One youth actually told me that they had been
seen to take up large stones in their " flippers " and hurl
them at the head of an intruder, and that they would "bite
22O The Devil's Limekiln.
your legs like anything." Their biting habits are likely
enough, but I very much doubt whether any seal on Lundy
or elsewhere could seize, much less throw, a stone. What has
given rise to the idea is this : The seal has undeniably
great power in his flippers, and, as he scuttles towards the
water, he will send the pebbles flying in a shower behind
him. It is quite possible then that a person following too
closely may get a nasty blow from some flying pebble — in
fact, I am assured that a powerful seal has been known to
drive a stone to the rear eight or ten yards.
Beyond this cave we come suddenly upon one of the
greatest natural curiosities in the island — the Devil's Lime-
kiln. Some fifty feet below the brow of the table-land, in
the midst of a dark, barren slope where the very stones
seem bleached, yawns a great chasm. In shape it is like
an inverted cone or wedge (being nearly square at the top),
tapering to a fissure at the bottom. The mouth is about
seven hundred feet in circumference, but the boulder-strewn
floor cannot be more than twenty feet across, and perhaps
sixty in length. The depth appears to be about three
hundred feet. With its sheer walls of granite and dark,
shadowy depths difficult to fathom, the Devil's Limekiln is
a strange, weird place, and no one will think the name
inappropriate.
The door to the Limekiln is on the north-western side,
inside the Shutter Rock — a great cone of granite joined to
the mainland by a narrow ridge. There used to be another
entrance on the south side of the Shutter, but this is now
blocked by great masses of rock, so that nothing can enter
but sea birds.
But the north-western entrance — which you can see when
looking into the abyss — is accessible by boat, though, of
course, only in calm weather. Even then the adventure
is not unattended with risk. An acquaintance told me that
he had just landed, when, happening to look outward, he
Shutter Rock. 221
was horrified to see a ground sea approaching. He shouted
to the men in the boat to back out at once from among the
rocks. They were only just in time, and my friend had to
remain a prisoner until the sea subsided as suddenly as it
had arisen and permitted the boat to return.
The other entrance is impressive, too, though in a different
way. Through an opening in the boulders a blue light
streams down upon the water without as it sucks, sucks
against the walls of the cave through which the chasm was
formerly accessible, and plays in ghastly gleams upon the
transparent tide. It is sad, too, for high up among the
giant debris we found wedged the wreckage of a ship that
had probably foundered off this terrible coast, leaving
no soul to tell the tale. But how furious must have been
the storm that not only drove the fragments into this
cleft of the rocks, but actually jammed them between the
boulders !
The Shutter Rock gets its name from a local saying that
if turned over and tilted into the Devil's Limekiln it would
exactly fit the chasm, and it certainly looks as if it would.
This is the scene of the wreck of the great Armada ship
in " Westward Ho ! " though how she could have gone
ashore between the Shutter and the land, seeing that the
isthmus joining it to the island is at least a hundred feet
high, is a mystery. But the account of the wreck and of
the judgment which fell upon "the great proud sea captain"
is one of the finest pieces of writing in the language, and I
make no apology for introducing it here.
" On they swept, gaining fast on the Spaniard.
" 'Call the men up and to quarters ; the rain will be over
in ten minutes.'
" Yeo ran forward to the gangway ; and sprang back
again, with a face white and wild
" ' Land right ahead ! Port your helm, sir ! For the love
of God, port your helm ! '
222 The Shutter.
" Amyas, with the strength of a bull, jammed the helm
down, while Yeo shouted to the men below.
" She swung round. The masts bent like whips ; crack
went the foresail like a cannon. What matter? Within
two hundred yards of them was the Spaniard ; in front
of her, and above her, a huge dark bank rose through
the dense hail, and mingled with the clouds ; and at its
foot, plainer every moment, pillars and spouts of leaping
foam.
" ' What is it— Morte ? Hartland ? '
" It might be anything for thirty miles.
" ' Lundy ! ' said Yeo. ' The south end ! I see the head
of the Shutter in the breakers ! Hard-a-port yet, and get
her close-hauled as you can, and the Lord may have mercy
on us still ! Look at the Spaniard ! '
" Yes, look at the Spaniard !
"On their left hand, as they broached-to, the wall of
granite sloped down from the clouds toward an isolated
peak of rock, some two hundred feet in height. Then a
hundred yards of roaring breaker upon a sunken shelf,
across which the race of the tide poured like a cataract ;
then amid a column of salt smoke, the Shutter, like a
huge black fang, rose waiting for its prey ; and, between
the Shutter and the land, the great galleon loomed dimly
through the storm.
" He, too, had seen his danger and tried to broach-to.
But his clumsy mass refused to obey the helm ; he struggled
a moment, half hid in foam ; fell away again, and rushed
upon his doom.
" ' Lost ! lost ! lost ! ' cried Amyas madly, and, throwing
up his hands, let go the tiller. Yeo caught it just in time.
" ' Sir ! Sir ! What are you at ? We shall clear the
rock yet.'
" ' Yes,' shouted Amyas in his frenzy ; ' but he will not ! '
" Another minute. The galleon gave a sudden jar, and
The Shutter. 223
stopped. Then one long heave and bound, as if to free
herself. And then her bows lighted clean upon the Shutter.
"An awful silence fell on every English soul. They
heard not the roaring of wind and surge ; they saw not the
blinding flashes of the lightning ; but they heard one long
ear-piercing wail to every saint in Heaven rise from
five hundred human throats ; they saw the mighty ship
heel over from the wind, and sweep headlong down the
cataract of the race, plunging her yards into the foam, and
showing her whole black side even to her keel, till she
rolled clean over and vanished for ever and ever.
" ' Shame ! ' cried Amyas, hurling his sword far into the
sea, ' to lose my right, my right ! when it was in my very
grasp ! Unmerciful ! '
" A crack which rent the sky, and made the granite ring
and quiver; a bright world of flame, and then a blank of utter
darkness, against which stood out, glowing red-hot, every
mast and sail and rock, and Salvation Yeo, as he stood just
in front of Amyas, the tiller in his hand, all red-hot, trans-
figured in-to fire ; and behind, the black, black night."
It is — is it not? — a fine description, and, with the excep-
tion of the fact that there is no water between the Shutter
and the island, we can, looking down from the "sloping
wall of granite," imagine the whole scene. For where the
Armada ship really did go down is almost beneath our feet
— the roaring tide race between the Shutter and the Black
Rock, a venomous-looking crag two hundred yards out to
sea. Here the great galleon might very well have been
rolled over and over like a log, for, even in the calmest
weather, there is a heavy surge in the water — I have been
through it myself — and it requires some skill to pilot even
a small boat through the narrow, rock-beset passage.
Turning now directly northward, we reach the first of
the many little streams with which Lundy abounds. This,
224 Friar's Garden.
one of the smallest, is a tiny runnel, which, after a course
of a few hundred yards at the most, disappears beneath
the grass and water plants in a hollow near the edge of the
cliffs. Close to where it returns to Mother Earth the
ground is rent, parallel with the coast line, into some deep
fissures, apparently the result of a landslip, though the
islanders attribute the disturbance, as well as the greater
subsidence further north, to the earthquake of Lisbon !
The cultivated land adjacent is known as the Friar's
Garden, and was at one time, as the name implies, attached
to the ancient church of the island. When the father of
the present proprietor came into possession, this piece of
land was inclosed by an old fence in the shape of a coffin.
Like the mummy at the Roman feast, it would seem as
though the shape were intentional — to remind the good
man that he, too, was mortal. Greatly to Mr. Heaven's
annoyance, the fence, during his absence on the mainland,
was removed, and the Friar's Garden thrown into the
ploughland adjoining.
Beyond the lighthouse the coast runs out into a succession
of short promontories or headlands, generally crested with
low tors which overlook tremendous declivities strewn with
rock. Rather more than half-way down one of these cliff
slopes is the station for the fog signal. This station,
which is approached by a zigzag road, is the last human
habitation we shall meet with as we press onward towards
the first of the fences that cross the island — the Quarter
Wall, built by Benson's convicts. North of this boundary
Lundy is one stretch of moorland, in autumn a sheet of
russet fern, yellowing grass, and purple heather. A gun-
shot beyond, close to the cliff edge, we shall come upon
half a boat placed on end and furnished with a seat, a
pleasant resting place. Hence may be seen perhaps the
finest piece of coast in the island. Piles and slabs of
granite beetle over heathery slopes, over a turquoise
The Earthquake. 225
sea laced with a line of foam. Far away as it seems —
though only for the reason that you can see nothing beyond
— a bold promontory closes the view. Right ahead, almost
in the foreground, the granite is cloven as if with the knife
of a Titan, and a mighty slab fifty feet high and fifteen
thick leans outward, clean cut as a slab from the quarries
of Carrara. This great chine of rock is the most striking
feature of the " Earthquake."
The Earthquake is the name given to a series of deep
fissures or crevasses in the granite, running parallel with
the coast for some little distance. The depth of these
fissures varies from twenty-five feet to a hundred, or even
more. Although this is the principal scene of the
convulsion, there is no doubt that it extended a considerable
distance to the southward — there is the piece we passed
just now by the Friar's Garden, and probably the Devil's
Limekiln was caused by the same agency. It is quite
possible to descend into the depths, especially into the
great chasm beneath the slab, and it is well worth the
exertion. About and between the fissures the ground is
thickly carpeted with heather and fern, so that there is none
of that rugged nakedness with which these rendings of
the rocks are too often accompanied.
As to what was the cause of the disturbance, opinions, of
course, differ. Earthquake, however, is as good a name as
any, and earthquake it probably was that caused it. That
the result was not due to a landslip is evident, because the
rocks are fractured contrary to their line of strike.
Geologists refer the disturbance to times pre-historic, and
scout the popular idea that it was caused by the earth-
quake that destroyed Lisbon in 1755, though they are
willing enough to admit that the latter may have increased
the displacement.*
* Vide Mr. T. H. Hall's " Notes on the Geology of Lundy." (Trans.
Dev. Assoc., vol. iv.)
Q
226 Punchbowl. — Cheeses.
Not far beyond the Earthquake we reach a rocky glen
falling abruptly towards the sea and watered by the largest
stream on the island. It is known as the Punchbowl
Valley, and takes its name from a large piece of granite
hollowed out into a basin, which lies on the very brink of
the stream about thirty paces below the junction of a little
tributary. Unfortunately it is broken to pieces, its
destruction being attributed to some excursionists who
attempted to roll it down the slope. This " Punchbowl,"
which measures 4ft. in diameter, has been the object of a
very unnecessary amount of learned speculation. One
writer thinks it Druidical ; another Christian — the baptismal
font of some unknown chapel. No one seems to have
remembered that the large reedy pond called Pondsbury at
the head of the valley from which the stream issues has a
dam built across its lower end, and that on the bank there
once existed a mill. In short, the " Punchbowl " is nothing
more nor less than a millstone for grinding corn, and has
no more connection with religious rites than the lighthouse.
The view down the glen — of bright stream falling in
little cascades over boulders and ledges of rock, of stony
slopes bright with cushions of heather, and of blue sea,
framed in by the folding of the cliffs, is beautiful. Just
beyond the corner the stream has no bed at all, plunging,
or, rather, sliding, over a precipice to the rocky foreshore
below, almost wetting with its spray the Devil's Chimney,
a tall bleached granite pillar two hundred feet high.
Close to the Half Way Wall the rock scenery is again very
fine. Here are the tall pinnacles of the Cheeses, so named
from the round, cheese-shaped layers of rock which, piled
one upon another, rise high above the slopes. Resting for
a moment in the sunny corner beneath the wall, we look
back. What a glorious sweep it is ! In the foreground,
rising from a declivity almost unscalable, lofty pillars of
granite seamed and weathered stand forth against the blue.
Gladstone Rock. 227
Between them you look down a gorge to the sea spouting
over the reefs four hundred feet below. To the south, full
in view, the Devil's Chimney stands like a sentinel over
against a great cleft in the precipice, while off the next
headland the ever-restless surf breaks against the Needle
Rock. Inland, almost over the tops of the Cheeses, the
white column of the lighthouse looks down over an
undulating steppe of purple and gold.
The bay below is known as Jenny's Cove. Jenny was
not a woman, but a ship — an African trader that, nearly a
hundred years ago, went ashore right under the cliffs, and,
like most other vessels that try conclusions with Lundy,
became a total wreck. She was loaded with ivory and gold
dust, and it is said that a large quantity of both still remains
in the cove. As a fact some of the ivory was recovered by
a party of salvors not so very long ago. But there cannot
be much gold dust left, for the leathern bags, in which it
was in those days the custom to ship it, must have decayed
years since.
Not far from the Half Way Wall we shall come upon
heaps and lines of stones lying along the brink of the
slopes. No one seems able to account for their presence,
but, from their position, it is not improbable that they are
the ruins of breastworks. The coast, too, at this point, is
certainly much more open to attack, there being one or two
places where — though certainly under very exceptional
circumstances — it might be possible to scale the cliffs.
These shapeless heaps of rubble are a good mark by
which to find the Gladstone Rock, a small clump on the
southern side of a runnel — the second runnel beyond the
wall. When seen in profile this rock bears a strong
resemblance to our retired Premier, and, sad to say, from
another point of view the likeness to that old reprobate
<l Ally Sloper" is equally striking. In fact, having caught
sight of the bulbous nose of "Ally" first, I was inclined to
O 2
228 Round Tower. — Devil's Slide.
name the rock in his honour ; but, presently, as I passed
round it, the clear-cut features of the statesman stood out
against the grassy slope, and it occurred to me that, after
all, the name of Gladstone was the more respectable.
About a quarter of a mile inland a low round boss of
granite rises against the sky line. This was the site
of one of the round towers, and half a century ago there
were still remains enough to enable Mr. Chanter to give
measurements. He states that the inner diameter was I5ft.
Now not one stone has been left upon another, and their
disappearance requires little explanation. For within a
few yards is the Three Quarter Wall.
The antiquity of these round towers is well known ;
their origin has never been satisfactorily explained —
probably never will be. Those on Lundy appear to have
been very similar to the Irish round towers — their doorways
considerably above the level of the ground — and their
existence on the island has been accounted for by the
connection of the Mariscos with Ireland.* They seem to
have been used rather as places of refuge than of offence,
and were probably the last resort of the islanders from
pirates and other foes. There were at least three on the
island. The second stood near Tibbett's Hill, the high
ground a few hundred yards to the eastward ; the third,
which was the last to fall, was near the landing place, and,
from its position, was perhaps more of a fort than either
of the others.
Passing through the Three Quarter Wall, the last and the
most modern of the stone fences traversing the island, we
reach the heathery waste which extends to the North End.
The coast becomes even wilder than before, the cliffs grander
and more precipitous, one headland in particular beetling
over in such a manner that the face of the cliff, except
about the base, cannot be seen at all. It is underneath
* Chanter.
"John o' Groat's. — North End. 229
this overhanging brow that the inclined plane called the
Devil's Slide slopes to the sea. It looks like a toboggan
slide in stone, and must be quite four hundred feet in length,
but its proportions can only be properly viewed from a
boat. At the foot, confined within walls of rock, is a cove
of deep green water, where the Ancient Enemy could cool
himself at his leisure.
From this point the island narrows rapidly, the surface at
the same time sinking into a shallow depression, across
which, for the first time, the sea is visible on either hand.
Bogs and marshy places abound, and the " road " is, at
times, scarcely distinguishable, passing now through wet
grass and heather, anon over a floor of bare rock or
detritus of granite gravel. But along the cliff tops the
walking is still dry, and in a few minutes the ground rises
again in a gradual but steady slope to the North End. On
the highest point — it has long been visible against the sky —
is John o' Groat's House, a little building measuring but
2oft. by loft., and so ruinous that the walls are but 4ft. high.
Small as it is, however, it was divided into two chambers,
that on the east, where was the entrance, being the smaller.
In the troublous days of the Civil War it was a watch
house, and did not become " John o' Groat's " till the
beginning of the present century. The name was given to
it by a Scotchman who came to Lundy for the shooting,
and there is a tradition that he even lived in it. He must
have been a hermit indeed, for nothing can be further from
the " madding crowd " — if there can be a madding crowd
on Lundy — than this exposed ruin.
CHAPTER XVI,
LUNDY: THE EASTERN COAST.
The North End — The Constable — The Virgin's Well — The Gannet
Stone — Plans for Harbour of Refuge — Brazen Ward — A French Ruse —
The Gull Rock— Tibbett's Hill— The Templar Rock— The Logan—
The Granite Quarries — Wrecks of the Tunisie and Hannah More.
ALMOST immediately behind John o' Groat's the ground
declines rapidly and sinks to the sea in a great slope
covered with rock-masses and boulders. The finest of
these is a huge rectangular stack of granite known as the
Constable. He is Lundy's solitary policeman. " It is
therefore," says a writer in the North Devon Magazine,
" it is therefore no use going to Lundy in the hope of out-
running the Constable."
The view from this lofty brow is magnificent. Look at
it this bright August evening, when the sun shines full upon
the Devon shore, bringing out in strong relief against the
dark hills behind the white lighthouse of Hartland ! From
the Foreland, near the borders of Somerset, to Carnbeak,
near Boscastle in Cornwall, the glance ranges. There,
once more, is High Veer, and there is the Hangman, looking
more mountainous than ever, rising from the pale sea
vapour that wraps his feet, and beyond grey Exmoor
sweeping southward and eastward in long undulation.
And there is the sharp cone that looks down upon Combe
Martin Bay, and Hillsborough, and the Torrs, and Bull
Point, and rugged Morte, and the line of houses that climb
the hillside from Woolacombe. Below, if your eyes are
The North End. 231
good, you can make out Woolacombe itself, and Baggy
Point, and Croyde and the Downs of Saunton. And what
is that white speck at the very head of Bideford Bay ?
That is Braunton Lighthouse, and behind it are the villas of
Instow, and nearer, on the hill to the right, the houses of
Northam and Westward Ho. 'Clovelly lies in its cleeve, but
a fragment of Buck's Mills is visible, and Clovelly Court is
as self-assertive as ever.
Of the Welsh coast less can be, seen. For the Worm's
Head — that singular line of broken rock, for all the world
like a great snake rising from the sea — is thirty miles
away, and the depression of Carmarthen Bay places
another twelve miles between Lundy and the land of the
Cymri. Still, after a shower, I think you will see Precelly
mountain, although more than fifty miles distant ; the
high land about Tenby, and most of the Gower peninsula,
nearly, if not quite, to the oddly-named Mumbles. But
eastward of this everything is dim.
The surface of the sea, streaked with many a current
and tide race, is dotted with shipping. A great four-master
moves majestically up Channel in tow of an ugly-looking
tug ; a schooner is making a long tack across the bay towards
the estuary of Taw and Torridge ; the smoke of a collier
outward bound blurs for a moment the Hartland cliffs ; and
a whole bevy of small coasters that have been sheltering
from the easterly gale that blew all yesterday under the
Cornish lee come merrily past the reefs. The anchorage
is empty, but if the breeze "stiffens" it will soon be
half full of craft of all shapes and sizes waiting till the
weather moderates.
How different the scene in a former day ! Instead of
looking upon Lundy as a refuge from the storm, we may
imagine the poor Bristol traders hugging close the Welsh
or English shore, preferring the risk of being cast upon
the cruel slate reefs of Hartland or the sand flats of
232 Guano Deposit.
Carmarthen Bay to falling into the clutches of the corsairs
of Lundy. And, even had no corsairs been there, the
Severn Sea of the Middle Ages, even of two centuries ago,
must have been a watery waste compared with the Bristol
Channel of to-day. Cardiff, the busiest port in the West,
was then unknown ; Swansea was in its infancy ; the day
of Newport and Neath was yet to dawn. Only " Bristowe "
was of importance, and Bristowe had not a tithe of the
shipping that it has to-day. There were no four-masters
then spreading their ten thousand yards of canvas, no
steamers — nothing but clumsy little barks with enormous
poops and bows like the bastion of a citadel — barks that
were thought leviathans if they carried four hundred tons.
What would they say now, those mariners of dead
centuries, could they look from this heathery down on
vessels of four thousand, and of these perhaps a dozen
passing daily ? Verily the old order changeth and giveth
place to the new.
Let us climb down to that bare rocky spine, the north-
western extremity of the island. This ridge, even more
than the slope watched over by the Constable, is the
chosen resort of sea birds. They have even worn away
the turf. In its place the ground is covered with, and,
indeed, composed of, large quantities of a dull brown
deposit made up of the peaty soil and guano There
are acres and acres of this substance along these northern
and north-western slopes, and one wonders that so valu-
able a product is not collected and utilised. It is stated,
however, that its value is questionable, owing to the
dissolution of the ammonia and chemical salts by the
heavy rains.
This north-western point is pierced by a fine cave or
tunnel. It is inaccessible from the land, but a boat can
pass through with ease ; and as there are no less than five
openings, as well as two large holes in the roof letting in light
Virgin's Well. 233
and air, there is none of the gloom usually inseparable from
such places. The shape is very irregular, varying in width
from perhaps thirty feet in the centre to a yard at the
narrowest entrance. The length is, at the outside, two
hundred feet, probably not so much ; certainly not more
than a quarter of the length given by Mr. Chanter — eight
hundred feet! It is about thirty feet high. Of the
approximate accuracy of these dimensions I am certain,
as I rowed right through the cave and examined it at
leisure.
And what a delightful retreat it is on a hot day, when the
noontide sun is striking on the glassy water, and the granite
slopes overhead dance and shimmer in the glare ! Here,
added to the coolness of the grotto, you have the liquid
notes of the clear water, as it laps against the dark shining
walls, while, to right and left, the rude arches of the
openings frame in a picture of blue water and bluer sky
crossed now and again by some solitary sea bird.
But the strangest thing about this cavern is that in the
middle a spring of fresh water bubbles up through the
brine. This Virgin's Well, as it is called, I was unable to
trace, but Mr. Heaven told me that he had himself seen
and tasted it, so that there is no doubt of its existence. He
added, however, that of late years some masses of rock
had fallen from the roof, which had perhaps affected the
spring, so that, instead of bubbling up in one particular
spot, it might now be dispersed.
Leaving the North End, with its dangerous submerged
reef, called by the very mild name of the Hen and
Chickens, we will now turn southwards. But we do not
get far without an obstacle. In about a quarter of a mile a
deep combe — for Lundy — breaks the line of cliff. It is
horribly boggy — in fact, impassable at any time dryshod —
but it is very picturesque. The slopes, mantled with a great
carpet of heather and fields of fern, glow with colour, save
234 Gannet Stone.
where here and there the grey granite breaks through the
surface. Through coarse grass and rushes two or three
little brooks struggle down to the cove at the combe foot —
a cove where the water takes a darker tint than usual from
the mighty shadow of the Gannet Stone.
The Gannet Stone is a great granite peak, separated by
a narrow channel from two somewhat similar masses which
form a striking headland. Compared with the colouring
on the western coast, all three peaks are singularly light,
which is perhaps accounted for by the fact that they face
east, and have been bleached by the morning sun of
countless ages.
The rock is quite unscalable, even by the egg seekers —
who can get at most places. But then they are let down
with ropes from the cliff top. It appears to have been
known as the Gannet Stone from time immemorial, and
figures even in the Inquisition made when King Edward
the Second gave the island to Despenser as " a certain rock
called the Gannett stone with two places near it where
gannets settle and breed, worth in ordinary years sixty-six
shillings and eight pence " — a good price in those days —
"but," adds the Inquisition, "this year destroyed in part
by the Scots."
What the Scots were doing so far south does not appear.
The cove beneath this rock is one of the sites suggested
for the long talked of harbour of refuge. The other site
is at the Gull Rock, a little further south, where it was
proposed to erect a pier or breakwater stretching in
a south-easterly direction to meet another pier to be
built from Rat Island, the two piers inclosing an area
of 714 acres. The principal objection to both plans is
the depth of the water and consequent expense, the
estimate for the latter scheme amounting to no less than
three millions.
Failing Lundy, Clovelly and the Mumbles have been
Harbour of Refuge. 235
suggested. The arguments for and against these places
need not be discussed here ; it is enough to state the pros
and cons with regard to Lundy. The supporters of the
scheme urge the situation, which is about the centre of the
most dangerous part of the Channel, and the cheapness of
land and material ; while the opposition point to the fogs,
the tide races, the want of beach and of resources for
repairs.
Meanwhile, nothing is done either here or at the other
places mentioned ; and I suppose it will need some great
disaster, involving the loss of a few hundred lives, to revive
interest in the matter. Had it not been for the ever-
memorable blizzard, we should to this very day be without
electric communication between the coast lighthouses (as
we still are with those at sea), and till half a dozen ships
have foundered at once in the Bristol Channel for want of
a harbour of refuge, or another Dunottar Castle has gone
on the Eddystone, perhaps with disastrous results, I suppose
both questions will remain in abeyance.
Unless the objections to all the schemes are insuperable,
it does seem a little strange that even so large a sum as
£3,000,000 is not forthcoming. One would have thought
that if the Government — which, by the way, admitted the
fitness of Lundy for such a harbour — was frightened at the
expense, our great shipowners would not have been, and
would long ago have subscribed the whole or a substantial
part of the sum necessary.
A million vessels, it has been computed, pass Lundy
every year, from twenty to a hundred are not unfrequently
seen lying under its lee, and " on one occasion three
hundred vessels were in sight, and a hundred and seventy
of good size anchored at once in the roadstead." * It
looks very much as if English merchants, having insured
vessel and cargo, cared little for the crew. " When I was
* Chanter.
236 Brazen Ward.
clerk in a Bristol shipping office," said a gentleman to
me, " I heard my principal exclaim, on opening his
letters, ' Good Heavens ! the has foundered with all
hands.' I murmured some words of sympathy. He
stared. ' Oh ! ' he replied, cheerfully, ' it's all right —
she's well insured.' ' But how about the crew ? ' I
ventured to ask. ' Ah ! ' he said, meditatively, ' I never
thought of that !'"
A little to the south of the Gannet Stone commence the
steep, smooth slopes called the Sidelands. But even here
the granite occasionally asserts itself, breaking forth in
tors and pinnacles which sometimes present forms strange
and interesting. As we walk along the brow we presently
look down upon one of these tors, and, if we descend a
hundred feet or so, shall notice that about the middle the
rock is pierced by a small opening. This is the Mousehole,
and just beneath it is the Mousetrap — a slab tilted up and
resting upon another block exactly after the fashion of the
traps that some of us used to make in the days of our
youth.
At the base of the next point we shall notice something
which has the appearance of ruinous walls. It is a long climb
down through the fern and gorse with which these great
slopes are covered, but it is practicable, and we soon find
ourselves among the remains of the Brazen Ward, one of
the little forts erected at the time of the Civil War. It was
mounted with brass guns, and hence its name. These
guns were thrown into the sea by a French privateer,
whose crew captured the island in the reign of William and
Mary.
The story of how the Frenchmen took the island, though
bearing a remarkable likeness to the tale of the capture of
Sark by the English, has been so often told — and believed
in — that it would never do to omit it in an account of
Lundy. So it shall be told once more, and, to quote the
A French Ruse. 237
words of old Westcote about another " yarn," " it is at your
choice to believe this story or no."
Well, one day, a ship flying Dutch colours anchored
in the roadstead, and a boat's crew came ashore to beg a
little milk for their captain, who, as they said, was very ill.
The milk was supplied, but by-and-by the islanders were
informed that the captain was dead — and would they allow
his body to be interred in consecrated ground. Permission
was readily granted, and the crew of the Dutchman
requited the civility by sending an invitation to the whole
population to be present at the funeral. On the day
appointed the church was filled by the simple islanders.
When the corpse was brought in they were courteously
asked to retire for a few moments, while some religious
ceremonial was held over the coffin. They went into the
graveyard and the doors were closed. They had not long
to wait. Suddenly the doors flew open, out rushed an
armed band, and took them all prisoners. The coffin
contained no corpse, but muskets and cutlasses, and the
Dutchmen hailed from the southern shores of the English
Channel, and not from the levels of Holland.
They behaved like brutes. Reserving such cattle as they
needed for their own use, they hamstrung the remainder
or threw them into the sea, together with the cannon of
Marisco Castle and the Brazen Ward, and having stripped
the kind-hearted islanders of everything, including even
their clothing, took their departure.
Of the Brazen Ward little is left. There are the ruins
of a building of about the same size and shape as John
o' Groat's, while southward along the edge of the cliff,
which is here very low, runs a breastwork of masonry 45ft.
long, 4ft. high, and 3ft. thick, and another fragment
extends for a few yards to the north. The brass cannon
lay in the water for nearly a century and a half, when the
farmer fished them up and sold them to a yachtsman, who
238 Gull Rock.
mounted them on his yacht. A gun thrown over the cliff
below Marisco Castle still lies where it fell, though it is
generally buried deep in the shingle, and is only uncovered
by an unusually raking sea.
In the little cove to the north of the Ward a semi-circular
opening will be observed some twenty feet, perhaps, above
high-water mark. I am informed that the floor of this cave
when stamped upon gives forth a hollow sound, and the
island story is that treasure is concealed there. No
attempt, however, has been made to prove the truth of the
tradition. Probably the " treasure " would turn out as
mythical as usual.
Southward rises the bluff of Tibbett's Hill, which is but
-a few feet lower than Beacon Hill, where the lighthouse
stands, and which, as we have already seen, is the highest
land on the island. Tibbett's Hill ends in Tibbett's Point,
off which lie the pair of rocks called the Knoll Pins, while
a little south is the Gull Rock. From the summit of the
hill there is a good view over the greater part of the
island. At the back a mound with a few scattered stones
marks the site of one of the round towers. To the south
the cliff slopes are broken by some fine rock masses.
The most interesting, if not the finest, lies about two
hundred yards north of the Half Way Wall, which we are
again approaching. This is the Templar Rock. The
Templar is seen in profile. The colossal face is so perfect
in its outlines that seen at a distance — when the joints in
the granite are imperceptible — it is difficult to believe that
Time and the weather are the only sculptors. On the head
is a peaked cap. The Templar stares steadily out to sea
as if watching for the rovers that he knows have designs
upon his island.
At the very end of the wall is another pile which once
supported a logan stone. This is a square block, and was
balanced on part of the pile, from which the action of the
- •• u '
THE "TEMPLAR," LUNDY ISLAND.
Logan. — Quarries. 239
elements had gradually split it away. Not many years ago
it "logged" well enough, but it has now lost its equilibrium
and leans forward at an angle from which no human hand
will ever stir it again.
Beyond the Logan we strike the grass-grown road
running along the Sidelands to the abandoned granite
quarries. The marks made by the sleepers of the tramroad
are still visible, though the quarries have been closed for
many years. It is a wild place. Everywhere the hillside
is scarred with the excavations : here and there piles of
rock lie just as they were when the working ceased. The
slopes below the road are disfigured with great heaps of
refuse, stretching in some places right down to the sea, and
it will be many years, perhaps centuries, before vegetation
can make any appreciable impression upon these sterile
heaps. At the southern end of the quarries you will see a
combe or dingle with a few small trees. A little to the
north of this a tramway took the granite at a steep angle
down to a wooden jetty or pier. This has long since been
washed away — indeed, even the solid wall at its base is little
more than a ruin.
The granite works were started in 1863, the company
also taking over the management of the farm. For awhile
the undertaking was a success, some of the stone being of
excellent quality. But, owing to difficulties in shipping and
for other reasons, the company came to grief, and the
works were abandoned. On the whole, their failure was
not a bad thing for Lundy. For the company, if
unsuccessful as stone merchants, were worse as farmers,
and let the land deteriorate greatly. Possibly, too, the
three hundred quarrymen and labourers — it is said that
there were a hundred English, a hundred Scotch, and a
hundred Irish — confined in a small island found their leisure
time hang heavy on their hands. At any rate, they got
into all sorts of mischief — poaching, trespassing, trampling
240 Wrecks.
down the crops, and otherwise making themselves a
thorough nuisance. Nobody, I think, wishes the quarrymen
back, and their empty cottages on the hill top above the
works are fast lapsing into ruin.
Another quaint visage overlooks the quarries. About
midway there is a rock strangely like a rugged human face,
and the resemblance is increased by a tiny hole just where
the eye would come, through which, when seen against the
sky, the light shines brightly.
Beyond the quarries the Quarter Wall is reached.
Beyond this, again, and a long way below, rises the conical
piece of cliff called the Sugarloaf, the last of the granite.
South of this the slate begins, continuing to the very
extremity of the island.
Just this side of the Sugarloaf is the watering place for
vessels lying in the anchorage. Down a perpendicular
wall of granite comes a little cascade of purest water,
falling into the sea at a point where the water is so deep
that a boat can come alongside easily. It was near this
place that the large French steamer Tunisie drove ashore
in a blinding easterly gale two or three springs ago. Our
friend Thomas, the fisherman, was the first to discover the
wreck, and, clambering down the rough slopes to the edge
of the cliffs, managed to rig up an impromptu rocket stand,
and sent a line over the shivering sailors. He was joined
by others, and all day they worked till the whole crew had
been landed and hauled up the cliff. So great was the fury
of the wind that the rescuers were often unable to keep their
feet, but had to throw themselves upon their faces, while
at times the intense cold rendered their fingers so numb
that they could not feel the ropes. For this achievement
Thomas received the gold medal of the Board of Trade,
and each of the others had a money reward ; but, strange
to say, the owners of the steamer showed no recognition
whatever !
The "Hannah More:' 241
The end of our ramble approaches. We have reached
private property — the grounds of the Villa. Their owner,
however, permits us to follow the pathway along the brow,
which will bring us out upon the hill above the landing
place. The view of Marisco Castle, of Lametry Peninsula,
and of Rat Island from these grounds — as rough and
uncultivated, by the way, as any part of the Sidelands — is
fine ; in fact, from no part of the island can the whole bay
be better seen. As we look down upon it all we are
reminded of another of the Lundy wrecks — that of the
Hannah More. The Hannah More was a full-rigged ship
laden with guano, which dragged her anchors and went
ashore to the south of Rat island. The sea ran so high
that, except to leeward of the island, no boat could be
launched, and of course on the western side (which on
this occasion was the lee side) no boat is, or can be, kept.
But the men of Lundy were not to be done. Mr. Heaven's
boat was actually hauled up over the col connecting
Lametry with the cliff beneath the castle — a ridge that
few people would cross with hands empty — and launched
into the calmer waters beyond ! And little by little she
saved no less than thirty men, some of whom, poor
fellows, had been on a portion of the wreck for three
days. Meanwhile, the captain, in a state of desperation,
had committed suicide. The crew told how he drank a
bottle of brandy, and, never even looking shorewards,
leapt into the raging breakers. His body was washed
ashore at Hartland.
We leave Lundy with regret. Apart from the fine cliff
scenery, the pure bracing air, the wonderful colour and
transparency of the sea that rolls in unchecked from
iron-bound Labrador, there is a freedom from all con-
ventionality— a freedom unknown upon the mainland even
among the wildest fishing villages of Cornwall. Lundy is
distinctly out of the beaten track ; you can go where you
R
242 An Unconventional Spot.
like, you can do what you like, you can wear what you
like, without being subjected to the criticism or annoying
the susceptibilities of anyone. I believe you might walk to
John o' Groat's in a dressing-gown (a very uncomfortable
garment, by the way, for such a walk), and I am sure
you might in a poncho, without exciting more than
passing remark, perhaps without exciting remark at all,
as it is ten to one whether you would meet one of your
fellow mortals.
PART III.
THE SOUTH COAST OF DEVON.
CHAPTER XVII.
PLYMOUTH.
A Walk down the Tamar — The Hamoaze — Plymouth Sound — The Hoe —
Story of the Eddystone — The Breakwater — Drake's Island — The
Citadel — History of Plymouth — The Black Prince — The French
Descents — A Big Pie — Catharine of Arragon.
Silvery bays
Are seen where commerce lifts the peaceful sail,
Or where the war-barques ride ; the indented coast
Frowns with wave-breasting rocks ....
. . . . and cliffs high crown'd
With pealing batteries, and flags that wave
In the fresh ocean gale.
N. T. CARRINGTON,
IT is a long way from Marsland Mouth to Plymouth Sound.
A long way in a direct line, of course much longer if you
go by coach and railway. For there is no railway station
nearer than Holsworthy, and, though a coach communicates
therewith, it is necessary to walk on to Bude to catch it.
In winter, indeed, this is the only communication, for the
summer coach route from Bude to Bideford is only open
from the beginning of May to the end of October. And
this — though a walk of four or five miles will bring you
on to the road near Wooley — is a very roundabout way of
reaching Plymouth Sound.
If you have the time — and the inclination — you will do
R 2
244 The Tamar.
well to eschew both routes and make for Plymouth on your
own legs. Within an hour's tramp is the source of the
Tamar, one of the most beautiful rivers in the West.
What then can be more pleasant, after so long a ramble
over the stern and rugged cliffs, than to betake oneself to
scenes more placid, and trace the windings of this river
down to Weir Head, where it first meets the salt water?
And hence, if it be summer, the journey to Plymouth may
be continued on one of those little steamers which McBride
the enterprising runs so frequently for the convenience of
the "guileless tourist."
But this Tamar I have written of elsewhere* — we have
been up it if not down it. So its scenery must be passed
over in outline.
From its source on Wooley Moor, in the little boggy
pool from which also flows the Torridge, it runs down a
semi-moorland valley to Alfardisworthy (which we Devon
folk call Alsery], where it spreads into a lake, once the
reservoir for the disused Bude Canal. Thence it flows
onwards past Bridgerule and beneath Tamerton tower to
the green vale which trends southward to the ancient town
of Launceston, which is quite near enough to its banks for
a visit, and where may be seen a crumbling castle as old as
the days of the Conquest, and a church notable for the
carved stones of the exterior walls. But four miles below
Launceston the scenery changes. Hills close in upon the
river, and you wander past the grey rocks of Carthamartha
and through the wooded defiles of Endsleigh, so hidden
from the outer world that you might be in a Highland glen
or a Dartmoor valley. At Horsebridge the country opens,
and there is a glimpse of the great heathery backs of Kit
Hill and Hingston Down, their slopes studded with mine
stacks — the advance guard, as it were, of the busy mining
district of Gunnislake. Presently you strike the leat, an
* See " The Rivers of Devon," chapters xii. and xiii.
Hamoaze. 245
artificial stream like a small canal, which taps the Tamar to
drive the big wheels of the Devon Great Consols Mines.
This leat winds above the river for two miles or more, passing
along a wooded hillside to its termination at the workings.
From the Devon Great Consols, once in output and perhaps
still in extent, the largest copper mine in Europe, a road
leads to New Bridge beneath the ugly village of Gunnislake.
Here, for the first time, the Tamar becomes a staid river.
But, though navigable for barges, the steamer does not
come beyond the lock two or three miles below where is
the -weir which gives this part of the Tamar its name.
It is below Weir Head that the most beautiful scenes on
the Tamar unfold themselves. The steamer passes the
pinnacles of the Morwell Rocks, rising from a wooded
precipice to a height of three hundred feet above the stream
— the church of Calstock, high on the timbered steep of the
Cornish shore — the almost perpendicular shores of Cothele,
that ancient fortified mansion of days mediaeval — and the
lawns of Pentillie Castle. Mile after mile the river twists and
turns between lofty hills, covered to their tops with foliage,
save where here and there the hot breath of burning arsenic
has blasted both leaf and twig for evermore. Then, with
a final coil, almost doubling back upon itself, it leaves the
wood behind, and lo ! a wide estuary, bordered by gentle
slopes, bridged at its narrowest part by the chef d' oeuvre of
Isambard Brunei, binding Devon to Cornwall. Under the
great iron viaduct the steamer cleaves her way, to call for
a moment at Saltash climbing from the waterside towards
the railway overhead, and then steams onward among the
ancient wooden walls and modern iron monsters of our
navy to the busy docks of Keyham and Devonport.
Mount Edgcumbe is now ahead on the starboard bow —
Mount Edgcumbe with its green lawns and splendid
timber — that mount that, as Garrick sung,
All the mounts of England surpasses.
246 Plymouth Sound.
and which, it is said, the commander of the Armada had
determined to select for his portion of the new territory of
Philip of Spain, counting — as many others have done —
his chickens before they were hatched. In a few minutes
we have rounded Devil's Point, passed the Great Western
Docks at Millbay, and — there, full in sight, heaving and
glittering in the evening sunlight, are the waters of
Plymouth Sound.
Surely it is worth the thirty-five mile tramp from Wooley
Moor to Weir Head to come thus upon a scene which has
no rival in England.
From the Hoe, the hill that lies between Plymouth
and the sea, we command the whole panorama. Rather
different, is it not, from the quiet cove on the boundary
line between Devon and Cornwall ? Here are no rough
cliffs, no combe with its oaks and trout stream. On the
landward side buildings climb the hill to its very crown,
and the turf knows nothing of gorse and bracken, but is
worn by the steps of the multitude where it is not threaded
by broad paths. For the Hoe is the promenade of
Plymouth.
And a noble promenade it is. On the one hand, the
domain of Mount Edgcumbe, as verdant, as soft as a bit of
the Italian shore ; on the other, the breezy downs of
Staddon descending to the waters in bold slopes. In front,
the long, low line of the Breakwater with its lighthouse and
beacon ; below, the fortified rock of Drake's Island, and an
ever-changing kaleidoscope of moving ship and boat and
steamer. An ocean liner lies just within the Breakwater,
while further out towards Rame Head one of our floating
forts is driving the sea over her bows in cataracts as she
steams heavily away westward.
The Hoe is of very ancient fame indeed. Here, says the
legend, Corineus — otherwise the giant Cormoran, who met
his fate at the hands of Jack the Giant Killer, the hero of
Hoe. 247
our nursery days — slew a brother giant, Gogmagog, or, as
Spenser calls him in his " Faerie Queene," Goemot.
The Western Hogh besprinkled with the gore
Of mighty Goemot, who in stout fray
Corineus conquered and cruelly did slay.
The jaw-bones and teeth of Gogmagog were (believe it% if
you can) discovered when the foundations of the Citadel
were being dug more than two hundred years ago. In
Spenser's time the figures of the combatants were cut upon
the turf,* but these have long been overgrown, and nothing
is left — not even the bones — to commemorate the duel.
There are some who say that the Hoe is the Ictis of
Diodorus Siculus. On this endless discussion we will not
enter. For others would have it that Drake's Island was
the place, while many more urge the claims of the Isle of
Wight and St. Michael's Mount.
The ridge is crowned by monuments. There stands the
burly figure of Sir Francis Drake, his hand resting on the
globe which he was the first to circumnavigate. Near him
a bronze figure of Britannia with drawn sword and banner
surmounts the granite monument raised to commemorate
the three hundredth anniversary of the defeat of the
Armada. But on the slope rises a column more interesting
than either the statue of Elizabeth's great viking or the
memorial of Britain's Salamis — a column that testifies
dumbly to the God-given skill of an engineer, to the
triumph of man over Nature — the tower of Smeaton's
Eddystone lighthouse. What place more fitting than the
Hoe to bear the old Pharos ? What place more fitting to
tell its story ?
The story of the Eddystone is full of romance. The reef
had borne three lighthouses before the present structure
was erected between 1879 and 1882. Two had a tragic
* In a Town account for 1567 there is a payment of 8d. " for new cutting
of the Gogmagoge on the Howe."
248 Eddystone.
ending, and an accident occurred in connection with the
third which very nearly had a tragic ending, too. Most
people know the story of the first — the wooden building
erected by Winstanley. How he boasted that he would
willingly be in it throughout the strongest gale that ever
blew, and how, shortly after, he, with his three assistants,
perished in its fall. The storm was of extraordinary
violence. In London alone more than eight hundred houses
were destroyed, and in the country " upwards of four
hundred windmills were either blown down or took fire by
the violence with which the sails were driven round by the
wind." Four thousand trees were levelled in the New
Forest, and nearly five times that number in Kent. The
navy lost fifteen ships and the merchant service over three
hundred. The Bishop of Bath and Wells and his sister
were killed by the falling of their palace.*
This was in 1703, and the second lighthouse, also in
great part of wood, built by Rudyerd, arose in 1709. This
stood forty-five years, and then fire claimed it for its own.
The three keepers were rescued, but one lost his reason,
and the second, an old man of 94, died within a fortnight,
complaining that he had swallowed some of the molten lead
from the roof. And he was right ; for a post-mortem
examination revealed nearly seven ounces of metal in his
stomach !
The next lighthouse was the one now standing on the
Hoe. Smeaton rejected both the pagoda-like plan of
Winstanley's building and the introduction of timber into
the structure erected by Rudyerd. He adopted as his
model the trunk of an oak, and imbedded the base of his
tower in the rock itself, building a solid foundation thirteen
feet in height. Tapering gently, the lighthouse rose to a
height of over eighty-five feet, a massive column of dove-
tailed stone. It was a difficult task, for the Eddystone reef
* Bellamy's "Thousand Facts in the Histories of Devon and Cornwall."
Eddystone. 249
is twelve miles from Plymouth and exposed to the full fury
of the elements. At that time we were at war with France,
and one day a privateer had the bad taste to carry the
workmen off to a French prison. When Louis the Fifteenth
heard of it he was very angry. " I am at war with
England," he said, " but not at war with all mankind."
And, placing their captors in their cells, he set the
Englishmen free with a handsome recompense.
Smeaton's tower braved the storms of no less than one
hundred and twenty-three winters, and would perhaps
have braved as many more but for a natural phenomenon.
The rock was less enduring than the lighthouse. It became
undermined ; another site was selected, and the present
building arose, towering high over the column of Smeaton.
The lantern, which is I33ft. above high water, was first lit
in the spring of 1882.
Practically it is a copy of its predecessor, the principal
difference being in the base, which is square, in order to
break the impact of the waves, which would sometimes run
up the whole height of the old building and even " curl over
the top." The cost was ^80,000, and the time occupied in its
erection three years and eight months, or eighteen months
longer than Smeaton's building. But then it must be
remembered there was no particular hurry, as the old
lighthouse was not removed till the new one was finished.
In removing the stones of the old lighthouse to its
present position on the Hoe occurred the accident to which
I referred just now. A son of the engineer was watching
the swinging of a block, when the machinery gave way, and
he was hurled headlong. The hearts of the onlookers were
in their mouths, for it was low tide. But as he was
falling a large wave momentarily covered the rock, and he
fell into three feet of water. This saved his life, and I believe
even his limbs. Mr. Douglass appears to have taken the
tide literally " at the flood ! "
250 Eddystone.
Like that of the now historical policeman, it seems that "a
keeper 's life is not a happy one." When work is finished
there is nothing to do but read — the Trinity House supplies
a library — eat, drink, and sleep, unless the weather be fine
enough to admit of fishing. If the following story told by
Lord North in the House of Commons be true — which there
is, so far as I know, no reason to doubt — the dulness must
be appalling. On one occasion when some visitors
landed on the rock, one of the company observed to the
light keeper how comfortably they must live there, secured
in competency, at a distance from the turmoil of the world.
" Yes," replied the man, " very comfortably, if we could but
have the use of our tongues ; but it is now a full month
since my partner and I have spoken to each other."*
And yet the life has its attractions. One man was so
contented that for two summers he refused his holiday.
Pressed by his friends, however, the third year he came
ashore. But the change was too much for him. He was
continually at the public-house, sank into a state of
drunkenness, and before his time had expired was dead
from the effects of a heavy bout. Another keeper must
have been a wit. He had, says Mr. Smeaton, been
employed at making leather pipes for engines, but, growing
weary of the work, sent in his name as an applicant for the
post of lighthouse keeper. As he was being rowed to the
Eddystone, a boatman asked him why he had given up a
profitable trade " to be shut up for months together in a
pillar." "Why," said the man, "because I did not like
confinement ! " t
One more incident — it is a gruesome one — and we have
done with the story of the Eddystone. At the time when
only two keepers were employed, one sickened. A doctor
was signalled for, but, owing to tempestuous weather, the
* Walcott, p. 480.
f Gilpin's " Observations on the Western Counties."
The Break-water. 251
rock could not be approached. The poor fellow died ; and
for three weeks the survivor dragged on existence in the
storm-lashed column alone with a corpse. Fearing that he
might lay himself open to a charge of foul play, he would
not throw the body into the sea. I fancy that the recollec-
tion of those long winter nights, with the blast howling
without and that dread presence within, must have abode
with him to the end of his days.
Next in importance to the Eddystone is the Breakwater.
It is a great work, this Breakwater, and one wonders how
Plymouth managed so long to do without it. The history
of its erection is instructive as showing how man may
sometimes do well to take a hint from Nature. The
work was commenced in 1812 and proceeded with till
1817, when a storm played havoc upon the great bank of
granite blocks, and altered the inward slope from one in
three to one in five. Man nevertheless persisted, until in 1824
another storm attacked his work, 200,000 tons of stone were
washed away, and his one in three became one in five again.
Thus Nature triumphed, and the Plymouth Breakwater of
to-day has a slope of one in five,* while the centre line has
been moved 36ft. inwards, and the width at the top reduced
from fifty feet to forty-eight,
This colossal work, of such incalculable value to shipping,
was not completed till 1841. More than a million and a
half were spent upon its construction, and four and a half
million tons of stone tipped bodily into the sea or built upon
the rude foundation when it reached the surface. The length
of the central portion is 1000 yards ; each of the arms
measures 350 yards, so that it is only a few yards short
of a mile. The engineers were Rennie and Wheatley.
Within the Breakwater the most prominent object is
Drake's or St. Nicholas' Island. In early days a chapel to
St. Michael (not St. Nicholas, why it bears his name I
* The slope facing the sea is one in seven.
252 Drake's Island. — Lambert.
do not know) stood upon its summit, but this has long
disappeared, and the island has been fortified for centuries.
In 1643 it was turned into a State prison. Here at the
Restoration were confined the Rev. George Hughes and
the Rev. Abraham Cheere,two Plymouth ministers celebrated
for their great worth and piety. The former was vicar of
the parish church of St. Andrew, where he " adopted the
Presbyterian form of worship," and was in consequence
" deprived of his living and sentenced to nine months'
imprisonment under the Conventicle Act. Of his religious
works, "Aaron's Rod Blossoming, or the Benefit of Affliction,"
is perhaps the one best known, and excited the warm
admiration of Baxter. Hughes did not die in gaol. He
fell sick, and obtained permission to spend the remainder cf
his days at Kingsbridge, where he died.
Another prisoner, and one better known to history, was
not so fortunate. The offence of John Lambert, Major-
General under Cromwell, was not likely to be overlooked.
•After some years' exile in Guernsey, he was, owing to a plot
for his escape and other reasons, brought back to England,
and for fifteen years languished in this island prison, where
he died in 1682.
At the eastern end of the Hoe, overlooking the Barbican
Quay and Cattewater, or estuary of the river Plym, stands
the Citadel. To the casual observer it looks strong enough,
but I fancy that any one of those ugly black monsters lying
below there could lay most of it in ruins in a few hours.
But doubtless it was considered a very formidable affair
indeed when it was built at the close of the Civil War, less
as a terror to foreign foes than as a threat to domestic ones
— i.e., the sturdy Parliamentarians of Plymouth. It has a
very handsome gateway, and the walk round the zigzag
walls commands a panorama both of Plymouth and the
Sound.
To-day Plymouth is one of the most important towns in
Plymouth History. 253
the country. It is also one of the most historical. And its
history begins in very early times. Setting aside the
debatable question whether it was the Ictis to which the
Britons brought their tin from Cornwall for transhipment to
Gaul, there are certain grounds for placing an important
British settlement at or near Cattedown — that grassy hill
that rises on the eastern side of the Sound — where, as we
shall presently see, a large cemetery has been discovered on
the site of the present fort of Stamford Hill. Some would
like to make Plymouth the Roman Tamara, but, although
this must have been in the neighbourhood, " probably at
King's Tamerton, where there are some remains of ancient
earthworks," yet the Roman road passed a good three miles
inland, and no relics have yet been discovered sufficient to
justify the theory that Plymouth was a Roman settlement.
There is more reason, perhaps, for regarding it as the
Tamarweorth of the Saxons, though there is a boldness
about Mackenzie Walcott's unhesitating statement, which
is, I venture to think, hardly warranted when we consider
how many are the elements of uncertainty.
However, there is no doubt that Plymouth existed before
the Conquest, and the name of Sutton borne by the fishing
village mentioned in Domesday Book still survives in
Sutton Pool. This village was really composed of two or
more hamlets, known as Sutton (i.e., South Town) Prior,
belonging to the great Priory of Plympton, and Sutton
Regis. The latter, granted to the Norman family of
Valletort, became sub-divided into Sutton Valletort and
Sutton Ralph.
Plymouth owes much to Plympton Priory. It is the fashion
nowadays to sneer at monasticism, and doubtless there was
much abuse and no little evil. But there was also much
good, and Sutton Prior, or " Sutton-juxta-Plym-mouthe,"
would have been longer growing into the Plymouth of
to-day had it not been for the monks of Plympton. "The
254 Plymouth History.
Augustinian Priory of Plympton," says a writer in Murray,
"was the nursing mother of Plymouth." They fostered the
fishing industry and any little coasting trade to the best of
their ability, and the possession of Sutton by these monks
" raised it at once to a point of importance in the scale of
towns, since out of the dependence on the hierarchy of the
monastic period arose a church, a market, and the rudiments
of systematic civil government."*
Gradually, therefore, Sutton grew, and by the reign of
Edward the First was thought worthy of representation in
Parliament. The name of Plym-mouth began to supersede
that of Sutton, but the ancient name lingered till 1439, when
a charter of incorporation was granted, and thenceforward
Sutton became Plymouth. But long before this it had
begun to make a name in the history of England. In 1287
there mustered in the Sound and in the rivers Tamar and
Plym a great fleet of 325 sail, under the command of the
Earl of Lancaster, brother of King Edward the First, for
the expedition to Guienne. In 1339, at the time when
Edward the Third was laying claim to the throne of
France, Plymouth was attacked by the French, who burnt
seven ships, and who, though driven off by the townsfolk,
led by the Earl of Devon, with the loss of 500 men,
returned within two days, burnt a large part of the town,
and the remainder of the ships. Plymouth did not forget
this when seven years later she combined with Saltash
and Millbrook to send twenty-six ships and 603 men to the
siege of Calais. In the same year was fought the battle of
Crecy, and it was apparently at Plymouth that the Black
Prince landed on his return, still covered with the glory of
that great victory.
In 1355 the young hero was here again, this time with
his father. Once more the Sound was filled with ships,
which, ere long, to the number of 300, set sail across
* Bellamy's "Thousand Facts in the History of Devon and Cornwall."
The Black Prince. 255
the Channel for another invasion of France. _; After the
battle of Poictiers, Plymouth once more saw the Prince.
A triumphant fleet entered the harbour bearing not only
the hope of England, but the pride of France. For the
Prince came not alone. With him was King John, his
youngest son, and some of his nobles — all hostages for the
proper observance of the treaty of Bretigny. It is said
that on his progress to London the youthful conqueror was
feasted by all the towns on his way — an attention none too
great for one whose magnaminity was such that he " stood
at the French King's back during the meal, constantly
refused to take a place at table, and declared that, being a
subject, he was too well acquainted with the distance
between his own rank and that of royal majesty to assume
such freedom."*
How different the next occasion when the Black Prince
landed beneath the Hoe ! But fourteen years had gone
by since Poictiers, and he was still a young man. But
the hero's days were numbered. The expedition to
Castile for the restoration of the ungrateful Pedro the
Cruel, though successful, had undermined his health ; the
ill-success of the campaign against Charles, and vexation
caused by the knowledge that the hard-won territories in
France were slipping from his grasp, still further enfeebled
his constitution, till, unable to mount his horse, he
succumbed to the inevitable, and left France for the last
time. When he reached Plymouth he was too unwell to
continue his journey, and was fain to accept the hospitality
* Hume — who says, by the way, that the Prince landed at Southwark.
Froissart asserts that he landed at Sandwich ; but both are wrong, for
Richard Izaak, Chamberlain of the City of Exeter, who in 1681 published
certain extracts from the city records, has, under the date 1357, the
following: "Prince Edward brought over to England John, the French
King, and sundry of his noblemen, all as prisoners, who landed at Plymouth,
and from thence came to this city, where they were honourably received,
and so conveyed to London."
256 Fortifications.
of the Prior of Plympton. After resting awhile he was
borne to London on a litter, and, after a lingering illness,
died in the forty-sixth year of his age, " leaving," as Hume
says, " a character illustrious for every eminent virtue, and,
from his earliest youth till the hour he expired, unstained
by any blemish."
The French were not slow to take advantage of the
decadence of English power. Once more a fleet sacked
Plymouth. But its recovery was speedy, and in 1377, six
years after that last sad landing, and but one year after
the Prince's death, we read that the town was fourth in
population in England, ranking next to London, York, and
Bristol. The return was 7000, but as it was made for the
imposition of the poll tax — the same that in 1381 caused
Wat Tyler's insurrection — it is probable that the population
was somewhat in excess of that figure. The present popu-
lation is about 85,000, and yet Plymouth is far from being
the fourth town in England now. So does population vary :
manufactures extend — and what is a village to-day may
to-morrow be a town of tens of thousands.
It was about this time that Plymouth began to be fortified.
Most writers give the credit to Edmund Stafford, Bishop of
Exeter, but, although he doubtless assisted the undertaking
in every way, and was instrumental in the erection of the
most important part, the fortifications were commenced in
1374, twenty-one years before he ascended the episcopal
throne. In 1378 we find that Richard the Second granted a
hundred marks yearly for twenty years and the customs duties
for six years towards the cost of the defences then being
erected by the Prior of Plympton. It was not till 1416 that
Bishop Stafford came forward by granting an indulgence to
those contributing towards the erection of two towers and
other works, and he was followed by Bishops Lacy and
Veysey. This was Plymouth Castle, described by Leland
as " a strong castle quadrate having at each corner a great
The French. 257
round tower." Holinshed, however, who wrote nearly half
a century later, calls it a "blockhouse." This castle stood
on a rocky point at the east end of the Hoe, and commanded
the Cattewater and Sutton Pool. With the exception of
the remains of a tower in the outworks of the Citadel, and
some fragments of a gateway in Lambhay-street, it has now
disappeared, but the name Barbican still preserves its
memory.
According to Dr. Brewer, the Cattewater preserves its
memory, too. Under Cat-water (as he spells it) he thus
writes in his "Dictionary of Phrase and Fable:" "This is a
remarkable instance of mis-translation. The castle at the
mouth of the Plym used to be called the Chateau ; but
some, thinking it would be better to Anglicise the French,
divided the word into two parts — chat (cat), eau (water)."
This is really very funny — so funny that one is almost
tempted to marvel whether the learned Doctor is trying a
little joke at our expense. Many attempts have been made
to explain the meaning of Cattewater, but none have been
very successful. It is better, I think, to say at once that the
origin of the word is lost in obscurity. If it has been
discovered now, the best we can say is that it is found
in fable.
In 1403 Plymouth once more suffered from a descent
of the French. Their leader was Du Chastel, Lord of
Brittany, whose subsequent fate near Dartmouth is told
farther on. More than six hundred houses perished in the
flames, but, on hearing that King Henry had defeated
Hotspur at Shrewsbury, the invaders, who appear to have
been bent on taking advantage of internecine discord,
drew off. This was the third time that Plymouth had been
burnt, and no wonder that in the petition for incorporation
in 1430, the inhabitants plead that it had been "oftentimes
for want of enclosing, &c., burnt and destroyed." There
are, or were, many street names in the town commemorative
s
258 Plymouth's First Mayor.
of French attacks, such as French lane, Catch French, and
Bretonstde, lying to the north of Sutton Pool.
"The first Mayor of Plymouth," says an old MS., ''was
William Kentherick, in the reign of Henry the Sixth. He was
a little square man, remarkable for shooting with the strong-
bow, and one of the greatest eaters of his time. He gave
at the feast during his mayoralty a pie composed of all
sorts of fish, flesh, and fowl that could be gotten ; it was
I4ft. long and 4ft. broad, and an oven was built on purpose
for baking it." This would nowadays be called a squab
pie — though not a true squab pie, mind you ; for certain
ingredients are wanting that to a true Devonshire man —
and still more a true Cornish man — would spoil the whole
dish.
After this notable feat nothing of particular moment took
place for some thirty years. By that time England was in
the throes of the Wars of the Roses, and Plymouth,
though too far from the scene of action to be actively
concerned, was still, to a small extent, interested. For
here in 1470 Warwick the Kingmaker and the Duke of
Clarence coming from France proclaimed Henry the Sixth
king ere proceeding to London. For a time Edward was
forced to fly beyond seas, but he soon returned, and
Warwick fell at Barnet field. On that very day — the I4th
of April, 1471 — Margaret of Anjou, poor Henry's courageous
wife, landed at Plymouth with her son Edward and a body
of French auxiliaries. Such is the irony of fate ! Every-
one knows the end. Within three weeks the two armies
met once more at Tewkesbury, where " every petal of the
Red Rose was scattered from the stem." A few days later
Prince Edward was murdered almost in the royal presence,
and his heart-broken mother thrown into the Tower, where
her gentle husband had just breathed his last.
In the second year of the sixteenth century another
unfortunate lady landed at Plymouth. This was Catherine,
Catharine of Arragon. 259
Princess of Arragon, who had come to be the bride of
Arthur, Prince of Wales. The house in which she lodged
was only pulled down the other day to make way — O !
tempora mutantur — for a Board School ! It was an
interesting old mansion, built in the form of a quadrangle,
and at the time of the Princess's visit belonged to " one
Painter, a rich marchaunt."
S 2
CHAPTER XVIII.
PLYMOUTH — AND DEVONPORT.
Devon "Sea-dogs" — The Armada — Drake and Raleigh — The Mayflo-wet
— The Civil War — Blake — Napoleon en route for St. Helena — Some
Visitors — A Busy Place — St. Andrew's Church — The " Prysten House"
— The Guildhall — Stonehouse — Devonport and the Dockyard — Visit of
George the Third — Mount Wise — The Fortifications.
Upon the British coast, what ship that ever came
That not of Plymouth heares ? — where those brave Navies lie
From cannons' thund'ring1 throats that all the world defie.
DRAYTON'S " Poly-Olbion."
AND now we come to the period when the annals of the old
western seaport are especially glorious ; when it was the
starting point — the headquarters — of such men as Gilbert,
Hawkins, Frobisher, Raleigh, Grenville, Drake, and those
other " sea-dogs of Devon " in whom the Virgin Queen
placed such reliance that
When she was stogg'd, and the country in a mess,
She was wont to send for a Devon man, sir.
Hence in 1570, under the command of the good Sir
Humphrey Gilbert, sailed " the first European settlers of
Northern America ; " hence, two years later, sailed Drake for
Nombre de Dios with his two little vessels and seventy-three
men, and hither he returned, to start again in 1577 for his
celebrated voyage round the world. He returned in 1580
to find Plymouth decimated by the Plague, introduced, it is
supposed, in a cargo of cotton wool from Smyrna.* Not-
* The Plague visited the town again in 1581, and again in 1626, when
2000 people died.
Drake. — Raleigh. 261
withstanding their troubles, the townsfolk gave him a right
royal reception, the Mayor and Corporation met him in
state, and there was a great feast. Soon after the Queen
knighted him on board his own ship at Deptford, and he
was chosen Mayor of Plymouth.
The year 1583 saw the expedition of Sir Humphrey
Gilbert set sail for the new world across the seas. Sir
Humphrey took possession of Newfoundland, "where his
first act was to establish public worship according to the
Church of England." But on his return the vessel
foundered. The story of how he sat with his Bible in his
hand, exhorting the sailors and comforting them with the
assurance that "Heaven was as nigh by sea as by land,"
is familiar to most of us.
The next year Raleigh started again, and discovered the
tract of land named by the Virgin Queen after herself —
Virginia. But the colony established there by him failed,
and many of the adventurers died, Drake bringing back
the remainder on his return from his great expedition
against the West Indies. Notwithstanding this rebuff,
Raleigh would not give in, and in 1587 made other
attempts. But again he failed, and all he had to show for
the £40,000 expended was the potato and tobacco ! — and
there are doubts whether he introduced the latter after all.
Nor was he more successful in an expedition to the South
Seas with Cumberland.
Then came the Armada. Once more a great fleet
assembled at Plymouth under the command of Lord
Howard of Effingham, who, although a Catholic, risked
excommunication rather than forget his patriotism. The
Armada, delayed by the death of its admiral, and by a
tempest, had been so long in coming that some thought
the danger over. When the news that it had entered the
Channel was brought, the captains were playing at bowls
upon the Hoe. With characteristic coolness, Drake objected
262 The Armada.
to be disturbed. " There is time," quoth he, " to finish the
game first and beat the Spaniards afterwards."* But the
other captains persuaded him to leave the game unfinished,
and, embarking, they tacked slowly out to sea, for the wind
was dead against them. They soon fell in with the Armada,
" a crescent, of which the horns were seven miles asunder,"
and, hanging on its flanks, worried it to such purpose that
before the Spaniards reached Calais several of their ships
had been taken.
Who does not know the sequel ?
Dispersed by the English fire-ships, and still more
by storm, some of the great unwieldy galleons and
galliasses went ashore on the sandbanks of Zealand,
while others fled northward rather than again face that
narrow sea guarded by the sea-dogs of Devon. Tem-
pest after tempest assailed the broken fleet, till, from
Cape Wrath to Mizen Head, the coasts were strewn
with wreckage. Shorn of ten great ships and 10,000
men, the battered Armada returned to Lisbon. England
was saved.
Subsequent events in the history of Plymouth must be
passed over lightly. In 1589 Drake embarked with the
refugee Don Antonio, illegitimate nephew of Henry,
King of Portugal. This expedition, designed to support
the claims of Antonio to the Portuguese throne, was a
failure. The Plague played havoc with the crews, and only
half the number returned to Plymouth. In the following
year Drake took part in that great work with which his
name will ever be associated — the Plymouth water supply.
He brought the water from Dartmoor by means of a leat or
artificial channel, though a ridiculous legend (which has
more than one version) tells that, as he rode from the moor
to the sea, his horse's tail, sweeping the ground, drew the
* Some think that the game was played at the back of the Hoe, on the
site of the present Royal Hotel Tap.
Drake and the Leaf. 263
water after it. This benefit is duly recorded on the back
of Drake's picture in the Guildhall, as follows :
Great Drake, whose shippe about the world's wide waste
In three years did a golden girdle cast;
Who with fresh streams refresht this towne that first
Though kist with waters, yet did pine with thirst ;
Who both a Pilot and a Magistrate
Steered in his turne the Shippe of Plymouthe's state.
Another poetical allusion to this great service is to be
found in an old book* published in 1592, when Drake was
Member of Parliament for Plymouth, and dedicated to him.
There are four verses, all highly eulogistic of the great sea-
man, comparing him — very much to their disadvantage —
with certain ancients. The two first verses refer to the
water supply, and the bard thus uplifts his voice :
Let Jason, Tiphis, Hercules,
And all the men of fame
Whom Greece is wont to bragge much of
Loose now their former name :
For workes of greater price and praise
Our Drake hath taen in hand,
And eke perfourm'd ruling the ships
In flouds, and flouds in land.
The irksome drought that Plimmouth felt
Full long all parts distrest,
Industrious Drake by bringing home
Fresh waters hast redrest.
What better thing effect might be ?
What more of thankes and fame ?
So great a worke did once advaunce
Of Hercules the name.
Besides the expeditions we have mentioned, others were
fitted out in 1595 by Raleigh, Drake, and Hawkins — the
former for the continent of America, the latter for the West
Indies. Space fails to record the voyages of Cavendish,
Oxenham, Cox and Parker, Grenville and Frobisher, all of
* " The Art of Arithmeticke," &c. Written in Latin by P. Ramus, and
translated into English by William Kempe. (Vide W. A., vol. ix., p. 59.)
264 Arrest of Raleigh.
whom sailed from Plymouth, or to give details of the great
expedition against Cadiz under Howard and Essex in 1596
— the year that Drake died at sea.
England his heart ; his corps the waters have
And that which rays'd his fame became his grave. *
It was about this time, too, that four Spanish ships pursued
by French pirates took refuge in Plymouth Harbour, running,
as it were, into the very jaws of the lion. Their cargoes,
destined for the use of Elizabeth's great foe, the Duke of Alva,
were promptly seized, whereupon the Duke "laid an embargo
on all the English at Antwerp," and the Queen retaliated by
making the Spanish Ambassador a prisoner ! These were
stirring times, and one passes with regret from the glorious
days of Elizabeth to the feeble reign of James, in which occurs
the next memorable incident in Plymouth history.
This was the arrest of Sir Walter Raleigh, one of the
last of the brave men who had made the names of Elizabeth
and of England so glorious. Raleigh had been of late
unfortunate. His connection with the plot to place
Arabella Stuart on the throne, though of the slightest, had
condemned him to long imprisonment, and, had not the
cupidity of James been excited by the stories of the wealth
of Guiana, he might have died in the Tower. But, anxious
to lay hands on some of this wealth, the King set him at
liberty, and in March, 1617, Raleigh left Plymouth with a
fleet of twelve ships for South America. But the "gold
mine " was never reached, and little was done beyond
sacking the Spanish town of St. Thomas. The other
adventurers, fearing the King's rage, forced Raleigh to
return to England, and about Midsummer, 1618, he reached
Plymouth for the last time. He was arrested by Sir Lewis
Stukeley, carried to London, and, to please the Spaniards,
beheaded ; not on the ground of piracy — the people would
* Richard Bamfield in " The Encomium of Lady Pecunia, or the Praise
of Money," 1598.
Sailing of the Mayflower. 265
not stand that — but on the old charge of fifteen years
before. Whether Raleigh was justified in attacking his
old foes (as he maintained) I leave for historians to
determine. But he was unfortunate, and the unfortunate
are always in the wrong. It was a sad ending.
Ah ! what a life ! Is this the goal
Of all his bold emprise ?
Well did he write, Ambition ends
In two brief words — " Here lies." *
In the reign of Elizabeth, a body of Independents, or
Brownists as they were called, after their founder, Robert
Brown, had taken refuge from religious intolerance in
Holland. In 1620 they determined on emigracing to the
new settlement of Virginia, and, returning to England,
embarked from Southampton in two small vessels, the
Mayflower and Speedwell. But off Dartmouth the latter
put back, and the Mayflower proceeded alone. The last
English port at which she touched was Plymouth, where
the " Pilgrim Fathers," as they are called, were so " kindly
entertained and courteously used by divers friends there
dwelling " that they gave the name of New Plymouth to
their settlement on the coast of Massachusetts.
Not that they were the first colonists sailing from
Plymouth. A company called the " Plymouth Company,"
acting under royal charter, had tried to effect a settlement
some years earlier. And so, as Mr. Worth says, " the first
attempts to settle what is now the great republic of the
West were made by Devonshire men sailing out of
Plymouth Sound."
In the Civil War Plymouth went Parliamentarian. Only
a few years before (1625) the inhabitants had "superbly
entertained" the King when he visited the town on the
occasion of the gathering of another expedition against
* From a ballad written by A. P. Martin, " The Execution of Sir Walter
Raleigh," published in a volume entitled " Fernshawe."
266 Pirates. — Blake.
Cadiz — an expedition which failed ignominiously. Perhaps
this failure may have had something to do with the
determined resistance to the royal authority in 1643, ^44,
and 1646. The first siege, conducted by Prince Maurice,
the King's nephew, lasted for three months. But by this
time the town was well fortified, and the Prince, finding
that he could make little or no impression, and having lost
many of his force, raised the siege on Christmas Day.
During this siege an incident happened which may well
have led the sturdy Puritans to believe that the Lord
indeed was on their side. Shoals of pilchard suddenly
made their appearance in the harbour and in Sutton Pool.
So great was the quantity that the besieged were able to
dip them out with baskets.*
The next siege lasted nearly six months, and a summons
to surrender from the King in person had no effect on the
determined men of Plymouth. Then followed a blockade,
which lasted till Fairfax, advancing westward, scattered the
remnant of the Royalists ; Mount Edgcumbe, which had
been garrisoned for the King, fell, and Plymouth was
relieved. Meanwhile, taking advantage of the war, Sallee
rovers and other pirates, who had long been the terror of the
Channel, captured vessels by the dozen. A fleet of these
pests lay off the Land's End, continually on the watch, their
captains openly boasting that they would not leave an
English ship afloat.f
It was while entering Plymouth Sound on his return
from the capture of the Spanish plate fleet at Teneriffe
that the scourge of these pirates, Admiral Blake, breathed
his last. Cromwell gave him a magnificent funeral in
Westminster Abbey, but the heart of this great seaman
lies in St. Andrew's Church, " by the door of the Mayor's
pew." Few characters of that stormy time are finer
than that of this admiral of the Commonwealth. The
* Bellamy, p. 32. t Walcott.
Napoleon's Visit. 267
strife of parties moved him not; he went steadily on with
the work that he had in hand, regardless of the actions
of his master, Cromwell, although some of them provoked
his strong condemnation. His business was the good of
England. " It is not for us to mind state matters," said he,
" but to keep foreigners from fooling us." Blake was a
man of few words, and a letter addressed to the Admiralty
which I came across the other day is, even among despatches,
a model of brevity. " Please your honours and glory," it
runs, " yesterday met with the French fleet, beat, killed,
took, sunk, and burned, as per margin." It is to Blake
that we owe the long streamer which floats from the main
truck of our ships of war. When Van Tromp hoisted a
broom to his masthead in token that he would sweep the
sea, Blake replied by lashing to his masthead a horsewhip.
That horsewhip is our present pennon.
The last great personage who visited Plymouth Sound
came as a prisoner. This was the fallen despot Napoleon,
who lay here in the Bellerophon, waiting for the
Northumberland to take him to St. Helena. The excite-
ment caused by his presence was extraordinary. An
eye-witness writes that " the Sound was covered by one
entire mass of boats, filled with people. Every boat that
could swim was there, from the splendid barge to the little
cockleshell, and so closely were they wedged together that
no sea could be seen."* One of the visitors was Charles
Eastlake, afterwards President of the Royal Academy, and
he managed to get near enough to make the sketch which
afterwards became the great picture of " Napoleon Standing
at the Gangway of H.M.S. Bellerophon" and which fetched
a thousand guineas. f It is said that Napoleon was so
interested that he not only stood still, but sent his clothes
ashore to enable the young artist to make the picture as
* " Western Antiquary," vol. vi., p. 275.
f It is now, I believe, in the possession of Lord Clinton.
268 Dr. Johnson.
perfect as possible. Was this vanity or good nature ? This
was the last great historical event in the history of Plymouth,
and, in the opinion of a well-known West Country writer,
it was, " after the opening of the Salamis of England by
Drake, probably the Plymouth event of chief European
interest."
But Plymouth has been the birthplace or home of many
an artist besides Eastlake. Here were born James
Northcote, Johns, Samuel Prout, and Haydon ; and here
lived Cook, an artist whose water-colours — particularly his
seascapes — it would be difficult to surpass. From among
mien of literature Plymouth claims Joseph Glanville, born
there in 1636; Dr. Zachary Mudge, the noted preacher ; the
poet Carrington ; Dr. Bidlake, Bampton lecturer ; Dr. Kitto,
the great Eastern traveller ; Leach, the naturalist ; and John
Prideaux, the eminent chemist. I do not know whether
John Cookworthy, the Quaker, who discovered the valuable
properties of china clay, was a native, but his manufactory
was at Plymouth before the industry was removed to Bristol,
and, as all china fanciers know, specimens of his
" Plymouth " china are eagerly sought after.
Dr. Johnson visited Plymouth in 1762 in the company
of Sir Joshua Reynolds — who, by the way, was also a
native of the neighbourhood, being born at Plympton. He
stayed with Dr. Mudge, and was much impressed with " the
magnificence of the navy and shipbuilding," which " afforded
him," he said, " a grand subject for contemplation." The
" contemplation " of West Country fare seems to have
moved him still more, for he indulged in new honey, clotted
cream, and cider to such an extent that his friends feared for
his health.* But the man who could drink nineteen cups
of tea at two guineas, or thereabouts, a pound was hardly
likely to restrain himself over such homely — if bilious —
luxuries as honey, cream, and cider. With regard to the
* Mackenzie Walcott.
Quin. 269
tea story, I am told that the lady of the house, in irony,
asked him if he would like a twentieth cup, and, on the
Doctor gruffly responding in the affirmative, rang the bell
and told the servant to bring him a stable bucket !
On this Devonshire excursion the grave and ponderous
Doctor appears to have unbent, and returned almost to the
days of his childhood. On one occasion he actually ran a
race with a young lady, kicking off his shoes as he ran, and,
in spite of his proportions, he came in the winner, " leading
the lady back in triumphant delight."*
Another visitor, also a worshipper of the good things of
this life, was Quin, the actor. He said that Plymouth folk
with such an abundance of John Dory and grey mullet
ought to be happy indeed. But when he heard that they
were content to enjoy these delicacies without melted butter
his disgust was intense. " Sweet country ! " he exclaimed ;
" there is nothing sweet in it but the vinegar." But what
can one expect from a man who travelled all the way to
Bath on purpose to taste a Torbay sole fresh ? f
"It is hardly correct to call Plymouth a watering place.
We associate with this term all the paraphernalia of
summer seaside holiday : sands or shingle, with swarms of
children digging in the beach, Paterfamilias in easy dress
looking on ; dropping into the reading-room, pulling over
a telescope ; bathing machines, donkeys, go-carts, and a
general scene of relaxation, garnished with much flirting
and walking about by moonlight on the pier. But
at Plymouth and Devonport the sea means business.
Government buildings occupy the best situations. Officers
and officials, orderlies, sailors, and shipbuilders have their
work to do, and do it with an incessant going to and fro
which wholly hinders the calm sense of recreation that
marks a watering place. Why, the best hotels in the place
have no view of the sea. Everybody has something to look
* W. A., vol. iii., p. 25. f Walcott.
270 St. Andrew's.
after that concerns it, but they do not care to potter on the
shore."
Thus the author of " The Regular Swiss Round " in an
amusing paper on South Devon published in an old volume
of the Leisure Hour. It is quite true. They do not potter
on the shore ; in primis, perhaps, because there is no shore
to potter on. The coast line below the Hoe is rocky, and
although, since our author's day, a promenade pier has
come into being, where there is doubtless " much flirting
and walking about by moonlight," the sands are as absent
as ever, and, officials or no officials, business or no business,
children can scarcely dig without material. And, save one,
the hotels are all down in the town, which lies, as I have
said, at the back of the Hoe. So much, indeed, does the
Hoe intercept the sea view, that except at the eastern and
western ends of Plymouth and high up at the back you
cannot see the sea at all. But it is a fine town, for all
that, and its situation — in spite of the intrusive Hoe — on
ground gently rising towards the dim background of Dart-
moor, gives it at a distance quite an air of dignity.
There is not a great deal of the old town left. What
there is, or, at any rate, the principal part of it, we shall
pass through presently. No one visiting Plymouth to-day
would imagine that its origin was so ancient. And there
is an air of life and movement about its streets which still
further conveys the impression that Plymouth is a town of
modern impulse. It is more cheerful than most provincial
towns, for the dull raiment of the civilian is varied by the
scarlet of the military and the beloved blue of the Jack Tar.
The oldest building is St. Andrew's Church, a building
unusually large and spacious, the aisles of equal length with
nave and chancel. It dates from the fifteenth century ; and
succeeded an earlier church for which the town was
indebted to the Priory of Plympton. A worthy Mayor
named Yogge gave the tower, a handsome piece of Perpen-
Charles Church. 271
dicular work. It was built in 1460. During the visit of
Charles the Second and his brother the Duke of York,
" his Majesty under a canopy of state attended Divine
service and touched several persons for the evil."*
A building nearly as ancient as the " old church " (as it is
commonly called), is the "abbey," formerly the " prysten
house." This priest house has long since ceased to be
inhabited by the clergy, and is now a grocery warehouse.
The entrance is a good old Perpendicular archway of
granite, over which are ogee-headed windows divided by
transoms. It seems a pity that it should have fallen on
such evil days. Surely it might be devoted to some
purpose which, if not purely ecclesiastical, would still be
more in accordance with its ancient status than the use to
which it is now put.
Another noticeable church is Charles Church, commenced
during the siege, but not consecrated till 1664. It was
dedicated to " Charles the Martyr," or, as the Puritans
would have called him, " the man Charles Stuart." As an
example of seventeenth century Gothic, Charles Church
deserves great praise, and the spire is — for the time —
really fine.
The other churches are modern. So, too, is the Guildhall,
close to St. Andrew's Church. But it is one of the
handsomest buildings of its kind in the country. Its length
is i46ft., its width 85ft., and it is 7oft. high. At each side
is an aisle, divided from the central part or nave by
monoliths of polished granite. The tower rises to a height
of nearly two hundred feet. The windows are of stained
glass, and illustrate the history of Plymouth. One of them,
known as" the Siege window, was given by the descendants
of those actually engaged in that stubborn defence. A
statue of Sir Francis Drake stands on a pinnacle without,
and within is his portrait painted in 1594. The old
* Bellamy.
272 Stonehouse. — Devonport.
Guildhall, a building of no interest, has been converted
into a Free Library.
In the Plymouth Library, Cornwall-street, is stored a rich
hoard of artistic treasure. Here is the Cottonian collection,
the gift of the late Mr. Wm. Cotton, of Ivybridge. The
Italian masters are represented by nearly three hundred
original sketches and other drawings ; there is a large collec-
tion of prints, paintings, and bronzes. The paintings include
three portraits by Sir Joshua Reynolds — of himself, his
father, and youngest sister.
Plymouth, Stoneh9use, and Devonport are known locally
as the Three Towns. But for some years they have been
practically connected, and, seen from the water, or from
any height in the neighbourhood, appear to be one large
town. In reality, however, they are separate, and each has
its own governing body. Plymouth is by far the oldest.
In fact, Stonehouse and Devonport are both, comparatively
speaking, modern.
Stonehouse takes its name, prosaically enough, from a
stone house built by one Joel, lord of the manor in the days of
Henry the Third. Save for the Government establishments,
it is not an interesting place. These consist of the Naval
Hospital, the Marine Barracks, and, at the southernmost
extremity, abutting on the water, the Royal William
Victualling Yard — I believe the largest affair of its kind in
the kingdom. This is no place for statistics ; but those
who delight in such things may be glad to know that
the designer was W. Rennie, of Breakwater fame ; that
the cost was the same as that great work — namely,
a million and a half; and that it covers about fifteen
acres, with a sea front I5ooft. in length. Every comestible
necessary for the use of the Navy is here provided, and one
fairly gasps at being told of the tons of meat, biscuit, &c.,
that go to make the bone and muscle of our defenders.
Forty-eight bullocks a week is ordinary business, and a
Dockyard. 273
sack of flour is ready for the oven in two minutes and a
half.
Let us turn from this overpowering establishment and cross
the bridge spanning Stonehouse Pool, the creek dividing
it from Devonport. Although Devonport, as a town, has
grown up almost within the present century, the dockyard is
more than two hundred years old. It was commenced in the
reign of William the Third — a very small affair, not one tithe
the size of the present yard. Until 1823 both town and
dockyard were known as " Plymouth Dock," or simply as
''Dock." But the inhabitants petitioned George the Fourth
to change the name, and the growing town became Devon-
port, the Doric pillar called the Devonport Column being
erected to commemorate the change. The old name,
however, stuck to the dockyard — it was still Plymouth Dock,
and it was not till 1843 that the Queen signalised her visit
by commanding that it should take the name of the town.
The dockyard, which is the thing at Devonport, is some
seventy acres in extent, and gives employment to over
three thousand men. In it can be manufactured every-
thing necessary for the building of the largest battleship.
Description is useless ; you must go and see it — this scene
of labour, but, at the same time, of perfect order, for, as a
local historian remarks, " the dockyard looks anything but
a busy place on entering. Everything is so quiet and so
prim, from the large square chapel to the trim little avenue
which leads to the terrace whereon the resident officers live,
that one might almost imagine that the Government had
taken a turn at a ( strike.' But a very few minutes will
dispel this idea, by taking the visitor into the midst of
bustling though orderly activity — where docks and building
sheds, shops and smithies, rope-houses and mast-ponds,
wharves and jetties, elbow each other in what to the
stranger must be a most bewildering fashion." *
* Worth's " South Devon."
T
274 George the Third at "Dock"
Devonport was not the place originally pitched upon as
the site for a dockyard. The authorities preferred Saltash,
but, with a shortsightedness which their descendants must
bitterly deplore, the inhabitants of that ancient borough
refused to entertain their proposals. " What ! " said they,
" destroy our gardens, and perhaps increase the poor rates !
Never ! "
An amusing incident is related in connection with the
building of the North Dock. During his visit to Plymouth
George the Third inspected the new dock, and, observing
that the size was larger than that originally intended, asked
for an explanation. He was informed that the dock, as at
first designed, would only hold the largest British ships,
and that it was being altered to receive the Commerce de
Marseille, the great French man-of-war then building at
Toulon. And, strange to say, the Commerce de Marseille
was the first ship to enter it.*
This visit of " Farmer George " was a very grand affair
indeed. When he and Queen Charlotte went on board the
Impregnable — "which fired a royal salute while their
Majesties were ascending her;" rather trying, one would
think, to the Queen — they were accompanied by a cutter
rowed by six young women attired in black bonnets, white
gowns with nankeen safeguards, and purple sashes bearing
in gold letters the words " Long live their Majesties."
What " nankeen safeguards " may be, I do not presume to
know ; but doubtless this crew of Amazons looked very
charming, and, we may be sure, attracted a great deal of
attention. What awkward ladies they must have been to
tackle in the old days of the pressgang, and we may
imagine them perfectly ready to fall foul of anyone who
attempted to take from them their male friends. An
amusing story of those " good old days " is told by the
Rev. W. S. Lach-Szyrma.f An officer engaged on press-
* Worth's " Devonport." f W. A., vol. xi., p. 189.
Dockyard. — Mount Wise. 275
gang duty was beset by a crowd of these ladies, who
informed him that never, no never, should he have their
Jacks, their Bills, their Joes. But that officer was a student
of human nature. Very ungallantly he snatched the caps
from half a dozen female heads, and threw them on the
ground. For a moment sentiment was vanquished by love
of dress ; the ladies scrambled for their headgear, but, when
they had recovered the same, lo ! their lovers were in the
hands of the pressgang.
Devonport, like Plymouth, gets its water supply from
Dartmoor by means of a leat thirty-seven miles in length.
This leat was made in consequence of the refusal of the
Plymouth Corporation to grant water from their supply.
There seems to have been a good deal of feeling between
the towns, and one of the Plymouth aldermen actually
called upon Dr. Johnson, and asked his opinion upon the
Dockers' boldness. The Doctor, out of pure fun, entered
con amore into the dispute. He said : " I am against the
dockers ; I am a Plymouth man. Rogues ! let them die of
thirst, they shall not have a drop." And Alderman Tolcher
gravely informed all whom it might (or might not) concern
that the great Dr. Johnson agreed with him.
To the south of Devonport, facing the sea, is the height of
Mount Wise. There once stood upon it the mansion of Sir
Thomas Wise, who dwelt there in the reign of the Merry
Monarch. At that time most of the Mount was a furzy
waste ; it is very different to-day. To a great extent it is
covered with military buildings and fortifications, but there is
still plenty of room for promenaders, who from its seaward
front enjoy a magnificent view of the Sound, the mouth of
the Tamar or Hamoaze, and the wooded steeps of Mount
Edgcumbe. The semaphore on the summit is the last of
a line of thirty-two that a generation ago stretched from
Plymouth Dock to London. It was used to telegraph to
the Admiralty the arrival of Napoleon, and communicated
T 2
276 Forts.
the intelligence in fifteen minutes ! To-day the semaphore
is only used for signalling the shipping, messages inland
being, of course, flashed by the electric wire. Still one
looks upon the semaphore with respect. To convey intelli-
gence from the Tamar to the Thames in a quarter of an
hour — and this eighty years ago — strikes us as wonderfully
quick work. We are tempted to wonder whether science
has advanced so very rapidly after all.
The fortifications protecting the three towns are very
extensive, and extend from Staddon Heights on the east to
Tregantle in Cornwall on the west. There are some sixteen
or seventeen land forts, while in the sea, just within the
Breakwater, is a great iron fort of immense strength, and
batteries cover nearly the whole of Drake's Island. All
date from the present century — most, indeed, were erected
within the last fifty years. Prior to 1860, Plymouth,
according to modern ideas, was fortified very inefficiently
indeed, the principal defence being the out-of-date Citadel.
Had it not been for the fleet, she must have suffered even
more severely than was the case at the hands of invaders.
The eulogy of Lord Coke on the ships of his day is scarcely
excessive. " For beauty," he says, " they are so many royal
palaces ; for strength so many moving castles and barbicans;
and for safety they are the most defensive walls of the
realm." I wonder what he would have written had he lived
in the last decade of this nineteenth century. The beauty
of our ships of war is certainly not palatial now, and,
though their strength is immeasurably greater than that of
the old three-decker, their safety is certainly less, when a
touch from the ram of a sister ship can send one to the
bottom in a few minutes.
CHAPTER XIX.
FROM PLYMOUTH SOUND TO THE YEALM.
The Barbican — Mount Batten — Turnchapel — Archaeological " Finds " —
Staddon Heights — Bovisand — The Mewstone — An Original Letter —
Wembury — The Yealm Estuary — Newton Ferrers — The Dolphin —
Noss.
BUT we must now say good-bye to the Three Towns and
renew our exploration of the coast. From the Barbican
a ferry steamer crosses the Cattewater to Turnchapel. To
the Barbican, then, we descend by steep St. Andrew's-
street, where may still be seen one or two ancient
tenements that carry the thoughts back to the days of
Elizabeth. And there are more in Notte-street at the
bottom, though of late years they have put on another face.
I suppose it was necessary, this coating of rough cast and
these new beams, but one cannot but regret that these
houses, where doubtless once dwelt some " sea-dogs " of
the Armada, should have been " improved " almost beyond
recognition.
Other interesting houses will be found in New Street,
and one of the finest now left is in Higher Street. And
there is, or, rather, was, for it has been pulled down now,
another house of mediaeval days in the neighbourhood of the
Barbican, as Leland describes it, "a goodly house toward
the haven." In a street between Notte-street and the
Free Library (it used to be called Catte-street, but the
name, like the building, has disappeared beneath the march
of improvement) stood Palace Court. I have already
referred to this building as the house of one John Painter —
278 The Barbican.
a kind of Plymouth Dick Whittington in that he was no less
than four times Mayor of that ancient borough — and as the
lodging of poor Catherine of Arragon. At that time it
could not long have been built, for the " rich marchaunt "
himself received the Princess. Its story scarcely survives
its disappearance, for all that a friendly policeman could
tell me was that " kings used to live there."
The Barbican Quay occupies the site of what was once
part of the Castle. Many an armed warrior must have
landed here to ascend to the fortress above, many a
challenge must have rung out across the still waters of
Sutton Pool in those — happily — far-off days when the hand
of every man was raised against his neighbour. But all
this is changed. Peace reigns at the Barbican — that is, if
peace can reign where there is much noise. For the
Barbican is noisy enough in all conscience, especially
during a fish auction. It is the Billingsgate of Plymouth,
and Billingsgate, as we all know, is not exactly a land of
silence. Nor is Billingsgate fragrant. Neither is the
Barbican : it is of the fish — fishy, not to speak of other
odours wherewith the passing breeze is charged none too
lightly. But it is picturesque, and the stone quay, the tall
houses, nearly every one more or less a " marine store," and
the sturdy fishing boats with their richly tanned sails have
been committed to canvas over and over again.
The Barbican and its purlieus are much affected by the
children of Israel. Hebrew names are plentiful, and at one
shop in particular facing Sutton Pool I can remember
being served by a maiden who might well have been a
relative of that dreadful old Lazarus so vividly portrayed
by Baring-Gould in the pages of " Court Royal." But I saw
no Joanna, nor do I think that the Barbican of to-day could
produce anything half so sharp as that handmaid. Not that
the young ladies of the Barbican are dull. Far from it.
They can drive a bargain as well as the best — somehow the
Turnchapel. 279
neighbourhood of a fish market always is conducive to
bargaining — but Joanna was exceptional.
As we move on to the pier where the ferry lies waiting,
we pass a granite flag let into the pavement. The
inscription — "Mayflower, 1620" — is brief enough, but it
means a great deal. It means that from this very quay,
the best part of three centuries ago, the "Pilgrim Fathers"
set sail for that new land over the sea which is now peopled
with their descendants.
The dingy little steamer casts off her moorings and
steams slowly across the estuary. On the right is the
peninsula of Mount Batten, the highest part crowned by a
round tower, which in the days of the Civil War was a fort.
It will be noticed that the door is high up in the wall, so
that the tower must have been impregnable except to shot
and shell. It is now a coastguard station. Threading the
shipping that lie along the southern shore, we presently
reach the wooden pier of Turnchapel and disembark.
Turnchapel is the most uninteresting of villages.. There
is literally nothing to see. Across the mouth of the creek
are the Oreston Quarries, where was discovered the cave
which excited so much interest in the breasts of the learned
— both zoologist and geologist. It was full of the remains
of the lion, tiger, horse, hyaena, elephant, and rhinoceros.
As the cave was 35ft. below ground, and had no apparent
aperture, ages must have elapsed since it became the
charnel house of these animals. Some idea of the antiquity
of the remains may be gathered from the fact that the
stalagmite contained the fossilised jaw of a horse.
But remains of another kind have come to light near
Turnchapel. On the hill behind the village you will see
Stamford Fort, one in the long chain of fortifications
guarding the three towns. When the workmen were
excavating for this fort, they came upon an ancient burial
ground. The graves were about four feet in length and,
280 Stamford Hill.
besides human remains, contained glass and pottery, some
very corroded iron implements, bronze mirrors, fibulae, and
bracelets. From the shape of the graves it is thought that
the bodies must have been placed in a sitting posture.
There were no coins, save one of Vespasian, though some
British gold money has been found at Mount Batten close
by. It was a great " find " for the archaeologists, and the
relics add considerably to the interest of the collections at
the Plymouth Athenaeum. The most valuable item is
without doubt the bronze mirror with engraved scrolls
on the back, since, according to Mr. Spence Bate, " only
three of similar character are known."*
Nor are these the most ancient remains found by the
shores of Cattewater. At Cattedown, on the north side
of the harbour, there is, or, rather, was, a bone cavern
containing the bones of a dwarfish race whose antiquity
can only be guessed at. These remains were mingled
with those of the lion, rhinoceros, hyaena, bison, and
other animals, and were " sealed up with stalagmite in
some places four or five feet thick. . . . How many
ages have elapsed since these primitive inhabitants hunted
the wild animals which at some time existed in this neigh-
bourhood it is impossible to say."f
So the interest of Turnchapel and its neighbourhood is
of the past, an.d the antiquities by Stamford Fort will
attract more notice than the fort itself. To one wholly
ignorant of matters military it is much like all other forts.
An excellent road connects it with other fortifications on
Staddon Heights, and this road we will follow, until we reach
the coastguard path branching from it on the right, and
which follows more faithfully than any road the sinuosities
of the coast. Here, as elsewhere, where the path approaches
* Vide his illustrated paper in vol. xi. of the " Archaeologia."
t " Notes on Cattewater." By Robert Burnand. " Western Antiquary,"
vii. 121.
Bovisand. 281
the edge of the cliffs, it is marked at intervals with whitened
stones, without which, some dark night, the patrol would
stand a very good chance of making an involuntary descent
on to the rocks below. There is nothing very bold about
the scenery so far. On the left the downs slope up towards
the hideous rifle screen; below, the cliffs fall away in broken
declivities to the shore. Here and there comes a dip —
almost a combe — giving shelter to hazel bushes, and even
an ash or two. It is all very soft and pretty, but it is not
striking, and, fresh from the rocky bluffs of North Devon,
seems very mild indeed.
But as we reach the corner immediately beneath the rifle
screen, and pause for a moment to look back, one of the
noblest panoramas in the country is unfolded before us.
At a glance the eye takes in the broad Sound, the Tamar
estuary, the green lawns and stately timber of Mount
Edgcumbe. Midway is Drake's Island with Devonport
behind, connected by Stonehouse with Plymouth, which
sweeps round the head of the Sound and ascends towards
the hills behind. The Cattewater is partially hidden by
Stamford Hill, but you can see Laira Bridge across the
Plym, and a bit of Saltram Park, the seat of the Earl of
Morley ; while, overlooking all, the long undulations
of Dartmoor bound the horizon from Cocks Tor near
Tavistock to Pen Beacon above Cornwood.
Rounding the corner, the path drops to the coastguard
station above Bovisand Fort, wrhich stands close to the
water's edge commanding the little pier built for the
accommodation of the boats of Her Majesty's Navy, which
come in here for water, supplied by a great reservoir on the
hillside capable of holding 12,000 tuns. We pass at the back
of the fort, and descend to Bovisand Bay, a pleasant little
cove framing in a picture of Penlee Point on the opposite
coast of Cornwall, the fishing village of Cawsand shining
in the afternoon sun, and, in the middle distance, the
282 The Meiustone,
Breakwater — here for the first time showing otherwise
than a straight line — with its lighthouse and beacon. Not-
withstanding the ugly casemated fort, it is a picturesque
feature. Down the valley behind, almost hidden among
reeds and cresses, comes a little brook, whereat many a
picnic party has filled its kettle, for the spot is a favourite
one with the Plymouth folk, and on a fine summer day is
seldom deserted.
Retired it indeed is. Bovisand House, a short distance
up the valley, is, with the exception of the Government
buildings, the only dwelling in sight, and you will have to
walk a very long distance before you see another, even to
Wembury Church tower away towards the Yealm. For the
shore eastward is desolate, and only saved from barrenness
by the intrusion of an occasional field, and, after awhile,
even this ceases until you get well beyond the Mewstone.
As for the cliffs, they practically end with Staddon Point,
the grassy downs sloping to low precipices seldom more
than twenty or thirty feet in height.
The path winds onward. Some ruined cottages passed,
we are abreast of the Shagstone rock, standing half a mile
or more out to sea. When I last sailed by this rock a
portion of the wreck of the P. and O. liner Nepaul lay at
its foot, just showing above the heaving tide. The Nepaul
fortunately went ashore in calm weather, or there might
have been a serious loss of life. Happily all were saved.
There is little cultivation — here afield of potatoes mingled
with thistles (the thistles having the best of it), there an acre
or two of turnips. By-and-by even this comes to an end,
and we are on the downs. There is not much life. A hawk
wheels upward from his eyrie below, a stonechat dances
from rock to rock, and from among the gorse on whirring
wing shoots a cock pheasant. This is all. Not even the
bleating of a sheep varies the monotonous dirge on the
reefs below.
Sam Wakeham. 283
But there is one feature in this somewhat featureless
land. Suddenly a rocky peak rises over the shoulder of
the downs, and, as we turn another corner, the Mewstone
opens out against a background of deep blue sea. The
Mewstone is an island — a very small one, not more than a
mile in circumference, but of bold outline. The lower
slopes are grassy, but rock breaks out everywhere, and the
summit, two hundred feet above the tide, is a crag bare as
a Dartmoor tor. The colouring is rich. Down where the
restless waves break in foam, the tints are brown and
ochre ; higher, the slaty rock is a dark blue, at sunset
merging into purple ; higher, again, the shading is paler, as
though bleached by the sun and storm to which the crest is
ever exposed.
The Mewstone is uninhabited now, though this was not
always so. When the island was owned by the Calmady
family, a man w:as kept there to supply them with fish and
the rabbits with which the rock abounded. It must have
been a cheerless abode in winter, when the spray flies over
the topmost crag, and Wembury Church can have seen
little of the lonely fisherman and his wife from September
to May, for the Mewstone is nearly a mile from land. A
curious taste to accept exile to a spot so isolated, yet one
not wanting followers even in these latter days, for,
quite recently, I read in the papers that another couple —
men this time — were building a wooden house on a still
wilder islet off the Cornish coast, with intent to take up
their residence therein. Either they are crossed in love, or,
like the Athenians in the days of Paul of Tarsus, grievously
in want of " some new thing."
The last inhabitants of the Mewstone were one Sam
Wakeham and his wife — the ruins of their cottage may
still be seen — and they appear to have derived a precarious
existence out of excursionists, fishing, and the produce of
a little garden. A letter published in the fourth volume of
284 Sam Wake ham.
an extinct magazine known as the South Devon Monthly
Museum, shows what life on this rock was in 1834.
Although the wording of Sam's epistle is not, like the
language of the Gubbins band, " the very dross of the dregs
of the vulgar Devonian," it is still pretty bad ; like Chaucer,
the Lord of the Isles, as the editor facetiously terms him,
" couldn't spell a bit." I think you will agree with this
editor that a document so unique is " too good to be left
out;" so here it is :
" On bored the moostone septembur the fust Sur, i ham
verry mutch obliGed to u for puttin a drawen of the
moostone an mi howse into youre booke an i Rite this to
tel u that no won cant wark from the moostone to the shoar
At lo waiter for a six ore gig as i nose could be toed over
the roks without runnen fowl of it or a smawl bote mite
sale over in good Wether squire kill maid he nose the same
i ave a been livin hear a long time an i Never seed the
hole beech all across dry at No time whatsumdever the See
warshes over sum part of them for i Nose all the roks an
goes down their to pik sof crabs for bate gainst i goes a
chad fishin and me wife youre hum Bell servant
" to cumhand samel warkeam
" Po. scrip.
" if any genteelman what likes a wark he can wark to the
shoar At wembury and if they holds up there white pocket-
hanchecuifs for a signal an ile cum off in me bote and fetch
them to the island for two pence a pease an you furgot to
say that theres a bewtifull landin place dead easterd on the
iland an sum stairs that i made to cum up for the ladeys an
ile be verry mutch obliGe to put this in your booke you
maid a mistake I be not forty ears old i be only 39 and
6 munths
"samel warkeam
" P.s. Youve a forgot To say that ive a got a bewtifull Kayl
plat for the gentlemen an ladeys for To play to KeEls and
Mewstone. 285
shut rabets at nine pens A pease eccept the panches for me
piggs and kiP the jackits ov em
" An my missus hasent got no hobjecksuns to boyll the
kittle and make the tay pon the Kayll Platt and hand the
tay Pot out of the winder an put a tabell outside the
winder an every thing humBell and comfortabell."
I leave the reader to interpret this extraordinary specimen
of " English as she was wrote " threescore years ago as
best he may, merely explaining that " squire kill maid he "
was not a sanguinary ruffian, but Mr. Calmady, Sam's
landlord.
Unfortunately Sam's fondness for the " main chance "
brought him into trouble. Perhaps the " gentlemen an
ladeys " did not sufficiently patronise the " kayl plat" or
enough " rabets at nine pens A pease " did not fall to the
fowling pieces of the local sportsman out for a holiday Or
maybe the " Missus " lacked opportunity to " boyll the
kittle " often enough to keep another pot boiling. He took
to smuggling, did Sam, was found out, and had to retire
into private life.
The shallow bay between the Mewstone and Wembury is
haunted by gulls — indeed, it is said that the island owes its
name to the multitude of sea birds, or mews, that make it
their breeding place. Except upon Lundy, I do not know
that I ever saw so many in one spot as in the western
angle of this bay. The water was literally alive with them.
We leave the downs behind, and fields again appear
coming to the very beach. Straight ahead, where the land
rises, the lonely church of Wembury looks down from its
hillside. Even at a distance there is something peculiar
about its appearance. As we approach, this peculiarity is
explained. The churchyard is surrounded with a wall,
which, towards the sea, where the ground falls away
suddenly, is of some height, and supported by heavy
buttresses, giving the place a foreign, semi-fortified look.
286 Wembury.
It seems a queer spot on which to erect a church, for the
village is quite out of sight a long way off up the winding
valley. About the church are one or two cottages, a few
farm sheds, and a mill, the latter built so close to the
beach that the stream which turns the wheel falls on to
the very shingle. The whole group presents rather a
woe-begone appearance, for there is no life in the place.
'The dozen or so of souls that make up the population are
away most of the day in the fields, and, save a labourer
moving about in the sheds, and three or four masons
engaged in the restoration of the church tower, I do not
remember seeing a human being at Wembury.
Yet the place is not unknown to history. If we are to
believe the antiquary, it is the Wicganbeorch of the Saxon
Chronicle. "This year" (851), says the Chronicle, " Ceorl
the ealdorman with the men of Devonshire fought against
the heathen men at Wembury and there made great
slaughter and got the victory."* But I do not think that it
was on the beach below Wembury Church that the Danes
landed. The bay is very shallow and dangerous, but close
by is the Yealm, a deep river, and navigable for some
distance. It is much more likely then that the " heathen
men " would, after their fashion, steal up with the tide and
land on the western bank, probably near the spot where
now stands South Wembury House.
Wembury is the birthplace of Walter Britte, an Oxford
scholar and distinguished mathematician. He was a
disciple of Wickliffe, and on his master's death " upheld the
doctrines which that great reformer had so nobly and
fearlessly proclaimed."
The church is said to date from the thirteenth century,
the oldest part being the north aisle. It has been well
restored, and the wagon roof, pulpit, and bench ends
* J. A. Giles' Edition (Bohn). In a footnote he states that it was Wem-
bury, near Plymouth.
The Heles. 287
are noticeable, while the organ chamber is inclosed by
a good parclose screen. There is a fine reredos and a
beautiful font of local marbles. At the west end a striking
monument, also in local marbles and alabaster, commemorates
Elizabeth Calmady, who married Sir John Newbrough. Her
epitaph is quaintly written, but as Mrs. Grundy might take
exception to its appearance in print we will omit it. Her
kneeling figure placed on the top of a large sarcophagus is
very graceful.
Another notable monument is in the chancel. Beneath
a heavy Jacobean canopy lie the figures of Sir John Hele
and his wife — the latter with a comical little child in an
armchair at her feet. Below them is a kind of frieze con-
sisting of ten kneeling figures.
This Sir John Hele was one of the worthies of Devon.
He was Serjeant-at-Law to Elizabeth and James the First.
On land in Wembury parish, which had long been the
property of his forefathers, he built a magnificent house
which commanded so beautiful a prospect of sea and river
that old Fuller enthusiastically compared it to Greenwich
itself. But, after standing nearly two hundred and fifty
years, the property changed hands, and the house was
pulled down.
A laconic inscription may be seen on a small slate head-
stone near the south side of the tower. It runs thus :
Henry Kembil
died Nov. 25 : 1725
'Tis over with your friend
MIND THAT.
I believe that the coastguard path is continued by the
cliffs, or, rather, slopes, to the mouth of the Yealm estuary.
I say I believe, for, in a weak moment, I followed, or
attempted to follow, the directions of a son of the soil, who
recommended a " short cut " over the fields at the back of
the church. The result was that we struck the Yealm too
288 The Yealm.
far inland, a mile or more to the north of the Ferry at
Yealm Pool. Now, all pedestrians know how annoying it
is to have an unnecessary bit added to the tale of the day's
march. Fortunately, however, we had, on that occasion,
only been tramping for about four hours, so, whatever our
sentiments,
We spake not a word of sorrow,
but steadily addressed ourselves to the plod seawards. And
when we came suddenly in sight of the deep, narrow
estuary almost shut in by its lofty wooded hills, our little
blunderings were forgotten altogether. There, right under
our feet, the dark green water — green with the reflections
of the woods opposite — stole inward from the sea (for the
tide was flowing), scarce stirring the handful of yachts that
lay at their moorings out in mid-stream.
It is a lovely spot, and, as I have before remarked, the
wonder is that the Yealm, or, as the Devonian calls it, the
Yam, is not more visited. Excursion steamers come over
from Plymouth, it is true, but the " trippers " only stay the
allotted time of an hour or two and then return. No artist
is seen on the hillside or along the picturesque rocky fore-
shore, although there is work for a hundred of them. No
boating man sends his outrigger flying over the smooth
water ; there is not even paterfamilias pulling a happy
party of children under the cool shadow of the trees.
Half a mile from its mouth the Yealm is a watery
desert.
Not that I would have this charming estuary over-run
and cockneyfied. Far from it ; I prefer it as it is. But I
have, or conceive that I have, a duty to my readers, and to
keep my impressions of the beauties of the Yealm to
myself would, my conscience — none too tender a plant —
tells me, be selfish. I daresay the difficulty of procuring
lodgings may prevent some people from coming to the
banks of the Yealm, but these are the purple and fine linen
Yealm Pool. 289
ones, who must needs fare sumptuously every day. But
there are many — and even in this luxury-loving fin de sticle
I would fain believe they are the majority — who, I feel
sure, would, if they did but know of this peaceful and
beautiful spot, gladly put up with a lodging in the upper
part of Newton Ferrers (I really cannot recommend the
lower part, much less Noss), or at Wembury. I can
imagine few pleasanter ways of spending a holiday than
by pitching your tent in a quiet spot like this, where,
especially if you hire a boat, you can take your fill of
healthy exercise and artistic enjoyment. And at Newton
Ferrers you can hire a boat for next to nothing. I have
had one, all to myself, for more than three hours for
eighteen pence.
The Yealm meets the sea between two round headlands,
the further covered with trees almost to the summit, which
is crowned with one of Lord Revelstoke's lodges. This
side is more or less bare, and as we wind down the rough
track past the coastguard " look out " to the Ferry, there
is nothing to impede the view. Just now we caught a
glimpse of Noss Church over the corner of the plantation
above Newton Creek ; now it is hidden by the hillside. It
was our landmark for Newton Ferrers, where we mean to
spend the night. How are we to get there ? Here is the
Ferry, but where is the boat ?
The question is soon answered. At the magic cry of
" Over ! " — you do not shout " Ferry ! " in these parts — a
boat steals out from the now deepening shadows and moves
slowly across to the little quay where we stand watching
the transparent water lapping against the piles. He is
a reasonable being is the ferryman, and listens attentively
while you explain to him that Newton Ferrers is your
bourne, and that, if he lands you at the usual spot on
the road to Noss, you will lose much time and have to
get another Charon to ferry you across the branching
U
290 Newton Ferrers.
creek. Could he not land you now at that lifeboat house
on the Newton side ? It is only about two hundred yards
further, and — you offer him sixpence. That does it. The
good fellow's fare for the ordinary passage is but a
penny, and lo ! here is his obolus multiplied exceedingly.
And so we march into Newton Ferrers along the pathway
that skirts the creek while yet there is light to see the
windings of the Yealm.
Newton, when we look out upon it next morning, is a
picturesque village stretching along the waterside, and
making some effort to climb the steep road that leads
to the church — a venerable building pretty much on a
level with the modern church of St. Peter the Fisherman
on the other side of the creek. There is a homely inn
at the hill foot, appropriately named the Dolphin, for the
landlord is a fisherman — they are all fishermen at Newton
and Noss. From it there is a delightful view of Noss, and
of the wooded combe behind it. At night the Dolphin is a
lively place. Hither come the men of the village, and the
little common room is alive with song and laughter. They
are temperate folk, these fishermen, and though they take
their liquor kindly enough, they take still more kindly to
their games. • And such games — games that the young
man of the town would turn up his nose at — games that
nowadays are seldom seen save in such out-of-the-way
corners as this. The middle of the apartment is occupied
by a long and terribly battered piece of furniture somewhat
resembling a bagatelle board. Round this throng con-
gregate a merry crowd engaged in the mysteries of " parlour
skittles," while at a table behind, a little knot of quieter
souls are looking earnest over dominoes.
And in the bar parlour, a scrap of a room about eight
feet square, the mantelpiece is adorned with strange
monstrosities in " chaney." Here is a Highlander leaning
against a gigantic sheep about three times his size, yet
The Dolphin. 291
garnished — the sheep, not the Gael — with a red ribbon
round the neck. A tall gentleman in a costume a la
Claude Duval is carrying a spaniel, while a diminutive lady,
standing on a bridge beneath which swims an impossible
swan, leans gracefully upon his shoulder. A third orna-
ment represents Colin and Chloe going to market on a
steed of no equine tint, whose stomach is well supported by
foliage. This is no exaggeration. I write these words in
the very room with these objects before my eyes. To many
they are ghastly enough ; but the people love them, and who
shall say them nay? High art has not reached Newton
Ferrers, nor, at any rate during the present generation, is
it likely to. Not even the school board shall improve such
things out of the land. Indeed, I have a sort of sneaking
affection for them myself.
Outside, by the low wall that overlooks the scraps of
gardens and the creek with its line of fishing boats, is the
promenade of Newton Ferrers. But the promenaders,
mostly men, do not walk much. The promenading, for the
most part, seems to consist in shifting from one foot to the
other to make room for some Jack or Bill who has just come
in to tell of some piece of luck or the reverse — fishing is
not always good — off the Mewstone. But, whether the luck
be good or bad, they smoke seriously on, making, as Mark
Twain would say, quite a " repast " of it, leaning their
elbows on the coping, and staring reflectively at the water
below. They do not talk much, but the talk — to them — is
often weighty. It is the village Forum, and its presiding
spirit is our host, as burly a specimen of the sons of
Zebedee as you need wish to see. And his rusty black
Norfolk jacket seems almost a mark of distinction among
the more common blue jerseys and guernseys of the
smaller fry.
You wake at the Dolphin to the cooing of wood-pigeons
in the woods opposite. I know nothing prettier in our
U 2
29 2 Noss.
West Country — and I have travelled far — than the scene
which greets you as you lift the window curtain of your
bedchamber. The sun is shining brightly on picturesque
Noss, bathing the fields on one side of the creek in a flood
of light, though on the other his rays have but touched the
tree tops. Long reflections rest upon the water, only
disturbed as some early fishing boat creeps slowly up with
the tide.
But at low ebb the scene is not quite so attractive. The
waters disappear altogether, and Noss is divided from
Newton by a wide channel of silt, which, under a hot sun,
or, indeed, under no sun at all, is anything but savoury.
And if you cross by the stepping stones you will find Noss
scarcely sweeter than the bed of its creek. The lower part
of Newton is not altogether fragrant, but at Noss sweetness
is at a discount. It is very, very far behind the times in
the matter of sanitation. And yet it has had warnings.
About 170 years ago a pestilence carried off all but seven
of its inhabitants, and in 1849 it was ravaged by cholera.
Newton escaped. " Nobody died over this side," they will
tell you with pride, " except a person who would go to
Noss, and he brought back the cholera with him."
Still Noss is not as bad as it was, and, had it not been
for the " pig-headedness of two people " who would not
consent to Lord Revelstoke's scheme of improvement,
might by this time have been as free from danger of
disease, and certainly quite as sweet, as the waterside
street of Newton Ferrers. What a pity it is that so lovely
a spot should suffer prejudice because two cantankerous
individuals prefer their own selfish ends to the public
good !
CHAPTER XX.
BIGBURY BAY.
An Interesting Church and a Sumptuous One — Stoke Point — Revelstoke
Church — Lord Revelstoke's Drive — Mothecombe — Inns — Mouth of the
Erme — Fording the River — Ringmore — A Persecuted Priest — Bigbury —
Bread and Cheese and Cider — Mouth of the Avon— Borough Island —
Thurlestone — The Bishop and the Clerk — " Counter Alto " and
"Terrible"— Hope— White Ale.
LET us ascend to the church of the Holy Cross, noticing, as
we turn the corner of the Dolphin, the base of an old
Cross, probably as old as the church itself. The guide
book published by Mr. McBryde to passengers by his
steamers says that " The plan of the edifice is unique and
the orientation very marked, there being two distinct turns
to the north, typical of the way the Saviour's head was
bowed on the cross." The church, as its name implies, is
cruciform, and the uniqueness refers, I suppose, rather
to the unusual breadth of the transepts than to the
" orientation " — a feature common to many churches. They
are, indeed, so wide as to partake of the character of aisles.
It is an ancient church, the chancel dating from about
the twelfth century. The east window is Early English,
the three lights separated by slender detached columns.
Of the same period are the sedilia and double piscina. The
reredos, of marble and alabaster, represents the Expulsion
from Eden and the Annunciation. A fine modern screen
shuts off the organ ; another, under the tower, is faced with
old bosses and figures of angels, which look as if they had
formerly stood at the wall plates. Painted figures of
294 Holy Cross.
saints fill the panels of the oak pulpit, and the intersec-
tions of the wagon roof " are adorned by no less than
three hundred and seventy bosses, each of a different
design." There are three hagioscopes, one on each side
of the chancel, the third on the north side of the nave
piercing an angle in the wall, and thus opening up the
north transept, where, in bygone days, there was probably
an altar. The font, of Blue Anchor alabaster and polished
granite from Dartmoor, is so beautiful that a replica has
been made for St. Peter's Church, Guernsey. In the church-
yard are some venerable yews ; one in particular must have
seen many centuries.
There are two ways of reaching Noss. One is by crossing
the creek, at high water by boat, at low water by
stepping stones (a not very cleanly transit) — the other by
following the road round by Bridge End at the head of the
creek, a detour of more than a mile. There is nothing to
see at Bridge End itself, though at some distance beyond it
is the principal entrance to Lord Revelstoke's mansion of
Membland, and it is said that the hammered iron gates by
De Wilde are the finest in England. Not being particularly
interested in gates, and preferring a hundred yards of water
to a mile of hard road, we get the landlord of the Dolphin
to put us across in his boat, and in five minutes find
ourselves standing breathless — for it is a steep climb —
beneath the tower of Lord Revelstoke's new church.
Alas ! it was locked, and repeated knockings at the door
of the custodian's cottage elicited nothing but empty
sounds. Evidently he was from home. We wandered
round the garden, and even ventured to peer through the
windows — for which we hope we shall be forgiven — but
there was no sign of life. It was provoking, for, although I
do not pretend to take such interest in new churches as in
old ones, still one does not meet every day with a village
church costing, as I was told, nearly £30,000.
JVoss Church. 295
And so we, had to take on credit the information that,
owing to the steepness of the hillside, the vestry is under
the church, that there is a beautiful altar, triptych, and
frescoes, not to speak of the marbles lining the chancel
walls, and wonderfully carved bench ends, pulpit, and roof.
The worst of it is that nearly all the beauty of this church is
inside — the exterior calls for little admiration ; indeed, the
contrast between the dark stone of the main fabric and the
almost white dressings of the windows and tower are rather
severe. It wants the mellowing hand "of time.
But the view below, of the creek winding down towards
Yealm Pool, with the ancient cottages and church of
Newton Ferrers on the one side and the combe and
woods of Noss on the other, is quite sufficient recom-
pense for the climb, and with regret we turn from it and
make our way back to the cliffs.
There are many pleasant lanes about Noss, and one of
them leads up the combe past Natton Farm and over the
fields to Stoke Point, a headland of slate, great slabs of
which lie about the base. Here we get into Lord Revel-
stoke's private drive, and, if we have permission, can follow
the coast line with ease, if not with dignity, for a consider-
able distance. This road commands a very fine view of
Bigbury Bay, a curve in the coast extending from Stoke
Point to Bolt Tail. It is not a populous piece of seaboard.
Along the whole ten miles one does not see a single house,
with the exception, that is, of Hope, a tiny village stowed
away in the furthest angle. But the coast comes towards
us with a fine sweep, past Borough Island at the mouth of
the Avon — you can just see the estuary over its lower end
— past the mouth of the Erme, marked by a rugged opening
in the cliffs, and so onwards, the smooth surface of the slate
rock shining in the sun like grey satin. Nor is it satin only.
Vegetation does not stop at the brow of the precipice, but
creeps down its face in many a trail of ivy and tuft of grass.
296 Revel stoke Church.
Immediately below us there is very little cliff at all, the
ground sinking into a kind of amphitheatre, which shelters
a croft or two, some trees and bushes, and even an orchard.
Down in this lea, close to the cliff edge, so close that in
gales the spray beats upon its walls, is the deserted church
of Revelstoke, the ancient parish church of Noss — deserted
for the fine new building above Newton Creek.
There was certainly excellent reason for the erection of
the church of St. Peter the Fisherman, for, like Wembury,
this old building is about as far from the populous part of
the parish as it well can be. But there is something very
pathetic about it, and it looks sad and forlorn down at the
end of the long, steep lane now so grass-grown and forsaken.
No house is near, at least not near enough to be visible, nor
is any sound audible but the whispering of the leaves answer-
ing the low murmur of the tide on the rocky foreshore below.
It is an old building and has features embracing all three
styles of Gothic architecture, and a "saddleback" tower,
almost the only one I have seen in Devonshire. Part —
the south aisle and chancel — is still roofed over, and
contains a few seats for those attending weddings and
funerals, for parishioners may still be married or buried
here if they list. The whole building is being rapidly
covered with ivy, that faithful friend of the old and
forsaken.
Lord Revelstoke's drive runs along the side of steep
slopes covered with gorse and underwood to a solitary
cottage. At this point the road, circling round a deep
hollow, turns inland, and ends, so far as we are concerned,
in a lane that runs over high ground some three or four
miles to Mothecombe at the mouth of the Erme. From this
there is little view of the coast, a strip of blue sea through
a gateway being the only indication that the cliffs are near.
But it maybe questioned whether this route is not preferable
to that by the coastguard path. For we have seen the coast
Mothecombe. 297
already from above Revelstoke Church, and there are no
particular features of interest along the route except the
Anchorist Rock, a tor about thirty feet in height, upstarting
suddenly from a brake of furze. Downs, fields, and brakes
alternate most of the way ; the cliff scenery is scarcely
grand, and the walking laborious.
But every opening in the hedge on the landward side of
the road commands a far-reaching view. Over the wide
cultivated valley rise the southern heights of Dartmoor,
and perhaps for the first time you appreciate at what an
elevation — how, indeed, over the very feet of the moor —
runs the railway. Although at least seven miles distant,
you can distinguish one of the new granite viaducts
recently erected in the place of those graceful but not
altogether safe structures of timber which previously
carried the railway over the border valleys. At one
point, as nearly as possible due north, the moor is scarred
with white seams — the china clay works at Lee near
Cornwood.
Within a mile of the Erme, where the road begins to
descend, there is a pleasant short cut across some fields
into a shady bridle-path sunk deep between high banks, a
place famous for its blackberries. This way leads to
Mothecombe, a sunny hamlet on the slope of a green
combe that opens on to a beach of firm sand just where
the Erme enters the sea. There is no church at Mothe-
combe ; the people have to go to Holbeton, more than two
miles away. Neither is there an inn ; and, by the way, it
is noticeable how church and inn usually go together.
Wherever in a country village there falls the shadow of a
church tower, there you are almost sure to find an alehouse.
Their companionship is, of course, due in great measure to
the ancient fashion of riding to church, when the master,
having first lifted his mistress from her pillion, led the steed
that had carried both to the stable. But the growth of
298 Erme Mouth.
chapels, noncomforming and conforming — otherwise chapels-
of-ease — the introduction of mission-rooms, and other aids
to devotion have, by shortening the distances, rendered
riding to church no longer so much of a necessity as in
days gone by. Still the inns remain, and, if they do but
little business on the seventh day, manage to make a living
on the other six — and, besides, how handy they are for
weddings ! What the humble swain and his new-made
"missus" would do without the "public" to turn in at
after the nerve-shaking ceremony of matrimony it is difficult
to imagine. On the whole, if properly conducted, the
village inn may well stand near the village church. And,
to tell you the truth, I have wished before now that there
was a church at Mothecombe. It was as much as I could
do to get a little bread and milk at one of the cottages.
Half a mile away is a coastguard station commanding
the mouth of the Erme. This is the point to make for if
you wish to cross that river, and, by taking a lane at the
back of the village and then crossing some fields, it may be
reached without difficulty. This Erme is rather a trouble-
some river to negotiate. At high water, when it is nearly
a quarter of a mile wide, the coastguard, who are, almost
always, genial fellows, will perhaps put you across in their
boat, but at low tide this is impossible unless you can get a
boat further up the river by the weir, for the water is not
only very shallow, but there is a wide belt of sand between
the station and the water. The best way is to wade, but
let no one do this without consulting the boatmen. For
the Erme, though shallow, is swift, and the transparency of
the water is apt to deceive the eye. Nevertheless when
the tide has quite run out the passage is safe enough, and
not more than a hundred and fifty yards wide. I have
waded across myself, keeping close to the north side of a
pile of stones lying about the centre of the channel, and
steering for a ruined limekiln nearly in a line with it on the
Erme Mouth. 299
further shore. It was nowhere knee deep, and, as the coast-
guard remarked, " had I waited a quarter of an hour longer
it would not have been much above my ankles." But on
no account should the attempt be made when the tide is
rising.
No vessel is seen on the waters of the Erme, for, even at
high tide, the approach is full of shoals and rocks. An old
writer tells us how King Philip of Spain lost two ships here
in the days of Henry the Seventh, "when he was dryven
to lande in the West Country by rage of weather."*
It is a pretty river this Erme, though you cannot see
much of it at Erme Mouth. Still the distant vista of heavy
foliage coming right down to the water's edge — the woods
of Flete — with a blue Dartmoor hill in the background is
some earnest for the scenery up stream. It is, I think,
more densely wooded than any Devonshire river, and has
so many windings that at high water it looks like a chain of
lakes. But its course is short — almost as short as that of
the Yealm, with which it runs parallel from its fount in a
boggy part of Dartmoor.
There is not much variety to be found in following the
coast line of a great bay of which the whole extent can be
seen, not only from either horn, but from almost any point
between. And I am bound to confess that the latter part
of this walk — from the Erme eastwards to Hope — is a little
monotonous. For when you have reached the top of the
first long slope above the river, you see much the same
panorama as that which has been before you for the last
three hours. The only difference is that the spire of
Malborough Church looms up larger against the sky line,
though it is still a long way off, and Borough Island is near
enough for you to see the yellow neck of sand which at
low water joins it to the main land. Looking westward,
the Anchorist Rock stands out boldly on the rough slope,
* Holinshed's Chronicles, edition 1587, p. 24.
300 Ringmore.
and the ruins of Revelstoke Church are just distinguishable
among the trees and bushes inside Stoke Point. But the
worst of it is there is no chance of food. The farms stand far
back from the cliffs, and, even if we took the trouble to find
them, it is doubtful whether we could get anything like a
meal. In these lonely homesteads they are anything but
profuse in their hospitality to the stranger. " Hadn't they
even some milk ? " we asked at one farm further up the
coast. " No ; they wanted it for the calves." " Could they
sell us a little bread and cheese ? " was the question asked
at another — the very next. " No ; they had nothing," and
they looked at the questioner with suspicion, evidently
regarding a man who carried a knapsack as a kind of
superior tramp. So we shall be glad enough when, having
been up and down the sides of a good many little valleys
opening on to the cliffs, we can turn to the left up a pretty
combe to the village of Ringmore where there is an inn —
a poor one certainly, but better than nothing.
Ringmore is the prettiest village in this part of South
Devon. It lies at the head of the combe, half hidden by
the elms and apple trees that cluster about and below
its quaint little Early English church. The picturesque
appearance of this church is increased by the ivy which is
allowed freely to climb the walls, and, when I saw it last, it
was further glorified by a magnificent Virginia creeper,
which flung its red and gold foliage right over the chancel
roof.
The low, massive tower (which is crowned with a short
spire) is peculiar in that it has no arch communicating with
the church. It does not appear to be as old as other parts
of the building, notably the north transept, which is
Norman, if not of earlier date still. " It retains," writes
the rector, the Rev. Prebendary Hingeston-Randolph,
" in its north transept — the Manor Chapel — a portion of
the old cruciform church which, beyond all doubt, was
William Lane. 301
standing in the far-off day when our saintly Confessor-
King was alive and dead." In the troublous days of the
Rebellion a chamber in this tower was the hiding place of
William Lane, the rector, who, for his loyalty to a falling
King, was hunted down by the Government. Here for
more than three months he was supplied with food by his
devoted parishioners, until one day it was reported that his
place of concealment was known, and he was obliged to
fly to France. After awhile he ventured to return, but not
to his parish. Persecution still reared its head. So, to
keep his family from starvation, this poor priest became a
labourer, and worked at the limestone quarries at Hope's
Nose near Torquay. But, just as he had begun to see the
dawn of prosperity, the crew of a French privateer landed
and pillaged his dwelling of everything. Well might the
unfortunate have exclaimed, " Save me from my friends ! "
For the vessel " carried the commission of the exiled King,
for whose return to have his own again the poor victim of
this untoward outrage would willingly have laid down his
own life." Soon after this, worn out with suffering, Lane
died on his return journey from London, whither he had
repaired on foot to complain of the villainous conduct of
the minister thrust upon his former parishioners by the
Roundheads. It is a sad story — few even of that time are
sadder.
Over the chancel arch is a pattern in fresco painted
upon and therefore exactly following the lines and
colouring of a more ancient work, discovered, I think the
rector told me, when his church was restored. In the
chancel itself is an old chair interesting to Devonshire
antiquaries as having been at one time the property of
Dr. Oliver, author of the " Monasticon." On the wall
hangs an Icon or image of the Greek Church, brought from
Sebastopol.
During our walk over the cliffs we shall have noticed
302 Bigbury.
lately a church spire nearer than that of Malborough, rising
from the high ground a little inland from Ringmore. This
is the spire of Bigbury Church, a building containing some
interesting features, and, as it is but a short walk from
Ringmore, we will pay it a visit before once more
returning to the coast. The nave of this church is of the
usual Perpendicular, but the chancel is of earlier date, and
has a good Decorated east window, piscina, and ogee-headed
sedilia. There is, besides, an old carved pulpit, and a
massive granite font. In a little side chapel (now, of
course, seated like the rest of the church), communicating
with the chancel by a hagioscope, is another piscina, and,
set in the eastern wall, a mutilated brass showing the upper
half of a female figure, said to represent a lady of the
Bigbury family, and to date from about 1440. The only
inscriptions are short ejaculatory prayers in Latin to
Jesus and Mary cut on scrolls. On the opposite wall is a
slab of slate, bearing beneath the incised figures of John
and Jane Pearse the following punning epitaph :
Here lie the corpes of John and Jane his wife
Surnamed Pearse whom death bereaved of life
O lovely Peirce untill death did them call
They objectes were to love in generall
Living they lived in fame and honesti
Dicing they left both to their progeni
Alive and dead al waies their charitie
Hath doth and will help helples poverti
By Nature they were two by love made one
By death made two againe with mournful mone
O cruell death in turning odde to even
Yet blessed death in bringing both to Heaven
On Earth they had one bed in earth one toombe
And now their soules in Heaven enjoy one roome
Thus Pearse being peirced by death doth peace obtaine
Oh happie Peirce since peace is Pearse's gaine
He dyed the 10 day of December 1612
She dyed the 31 day of Julie 1589.
In referring, some time back, to the difficulty of procuring
Refreshments. 303
refreshments in these out-of-the-way districts, I mentioned
that there was an inn at Ringmore. I did not speak of it,
it will be remembered, with any great enthusiasm ; in fact,
it was only as a pis aller that I mentioned it at all.
My companion fancying the appearance of this humble
hostelry no more than I did, we agreed to wait till we
reached Bigbury. For six hours we had partaken of no
food save the succulent but not very satisfactory black-
berry, and it was with feelings of pleasant anticipation that
we left Bigbury Church behind and descended to the village
inn. One of us, at any rate, indulged in visions of some-
thing more substantial than the usual bread and cheese,
though the other, from long experience of these " publics,"
felt pretty sure that he indulged in vain. And so it turned
out. Was there no meat ? No ; the butcher only called
once a week. Then could we have ham and eggs ? (We
were not so keen for ham and eggs, by the way, at the end
of that walk.) No ; they had neither. We could have
cheese, and we could have cider. And with bread and
cheese and cider we had to be content.
And here I may remark that the villagers of South Devon
appear to dine off very little else. Except when we came
to a town, it was always the same, "bread and cheese and
cider — bread and cheese and cider," until we began to
loathe both. And for breakfast, and, indeed, for supper too,
we had to take the edge off our appetites with ham and
eggs. Sometimes, indeed, chops were to be had, but
the butcher — when there was one — would seem to have
killed a sheep for our especial behoof, as they were always
most exasperatingly fresh, and therefore as tough as whip-
cord. Now, bread and cheese and cider are excellent
things in their way, nor should the nose of contempt be
turned up at ham and eggs. But these delicacies pall after
a time. The French have a proverb that you cannot even
sit down to a partridge every day without wishing that
304 Avonmouth. — Borough Island.
partridge somewhere else, and toujours ham and eggs is
worse than toujours perdrix. If they would only cut
the ham decently one would not so much mind, but
they have hardened appetites or digestions, or both, these
Devonshire peasants, and a slice — I mean slab — of ham less
than an eighth of an inch thick would not be " vitty."
We had looked forward, not unreasonably, I think, to many
a breakfast off fish. We had such a breakfast once — at
London prices in a Torquay restaurant !
Filled, then, with the melancholy satisfaction that a large
meal of bread and cheese and cider cannot fail to induce,
we turn once more seaward and descend through the fields
at Mount Folly Farm to the river Avon. This is a more
formidable river than the Erme, though it meets the sea in
much the same manner, flowing over yellow sands, where
you may see —
The curled white of the coming wave
Glassed in the slippery sand before it breaks.
It will not do to attempt to wade it. But a shout will
soon excite the attention of one of those fishermen, busy
over their boats below the little white hamlet of Bantham
opposite, who, for a small consideration, will ferry us over
to the eastern shore. There is nothing to see and less to
do at Bantham, but the one row of cottages is perched
pleasantly enough on the summit of a low green cliff. I
shall never forget Bantham, for, wonderful to relate, I once
lunched off ham and eggs there instead of bread and
cheese.
Borough, or Burr Island as it is called in the soft, slurring
speech of Devon, which has been before us for so many
miles, is the principal feature seaward. It rises from the
water to the height of about one hundred feet, scarped
boldly down on the western side, but on the eastern
descending in grassy slopes. At one time a chapel to
St. Michael stood upon the summit, but this has long
Thur lest one. 305
disappeared, and the " tea house " which occupied its site
has nearly crumbled away, too. The only building upon
the island is a public-house. As it was unapproachable,
except by boat, at high water, and in a district sparsely
populated, it is not remarkable that it did not pay, and it is
now deserted. So, with the exception of the rabbits and
perhaps a few sheep, the island is uninhabited. Murray
says that it is a great place for the blue squill (Scilla verna),
and that in the season of flowering the ground has the
appearance of being overspread with patches of blue
carpet.
From Bantham, or, better still, from the hillside above it,
there is a pleasant peep up the Avon. The channel is very
narrow, and the ground falls steeply to the waters' edge
either in fields or patches of woodland. About four miles
of winding and the estuary comes to an end at the village
of Aveton Giffard, which overlooks a marshy delta formed
by the meeting of the Avon and another stream. Like the
Erme and the Yealm, the Avon has its source high up on
Dartmoor.
Immediately eastward of Avonmouth there are no cliffs
worth mentioning, for the coast is low and sandy. So we
will take the path — such as it is — across the fields to
Thurlestone, a small village looking down on the sandy
beaches and hillocks that stretch away towards Hope Cove.
Thurlestone Church, though its tall tower looks imposing
enough from a distance, is a forlorn object. The tower
is certainly out of the perpendicular, and both walls and
roof have undergone more than one " settlement." Inside,
things are better, though the style of architecture — a poor
Perpendicular— is not very interesting. There is little
really worth seeing save a pulpit of carved oak, and a
pair of eagles of the same wood used as prayer desk and
lectern. Thurlestone, indeed, is what people call an " old-
fashioned church" — the sort of church where you would
x
306 The Thurlestone.
almost expect the violin and bass viol — where even Tate
and Brady might not be altogether extinct. In short, it
might be the place where on the occasion of the Bishop's
visit the poetical parish clerk ventured to alter the text of
the composers, and gave out the hymn as follows :
Why skip thee now thou little hills,
Thee mountains why dost hop ?
Is it because you've come to see
My Lord, the Lord Bi — shop ?
That clerk is not the only Devonshire rustic gifted with
powers 'of composition. I know an old woman near my
former home who not only composes verses, but sings them,
too. The curate one day chaffingly invited her to sing a
duet with him at the next village concert. She accepted
with alacrity. But her knowledge of musical terms was not
equal to her knowledge of music. " You shall sing counter
alto, sir," quoth she, " and I'll sing terrible." Unfortuately
the concert did not come off.
On the shore below Thurlestone Church — we shall pass
close to it presently — is the singular arched rock from
which the village takes its name — the Thurlestone, or
drilled stone — a word that is said to be derived from the
Anglo-Saxon thyrelan, to drill or pierce. A rock upon
Watern Tor, Dartmoor, bears the same name, though
there the arch or hole is more apparent than real, a near
approach revealing the fact that at the top the granite
masses do not touch. Nor does it, so far as I am aware,
possess the noisy properties of this sea-girt rock. It is said
that during a storm the Thurlestone
Roars
To the wind that roars again,
and that the " trumpet-like sound can be heard as far as
Kingsbridge, which is four miles away ! "
The Thurlestone is of great interest geologically. It is
an outlying patch of the new red sandstone, of course quite
Hope. 307
different, both in texture and colour, to the cliffs and
foreshore of slate of which the remainder of the bay is
composed. The rock, which is about thirty feet high,
stands boldly up from the low reefs of the bay, and, as
the beach is nearly level, is a very prominent object.
It is easily approached, the sea, at low tide, receding
some distance beyond it.
One after another three shallow valleys run down to
the low sandy shore, each watered by its stream. Up
one of them we get a glimpse of the village and church
of South Hewish. Beyond these valleys the coast rises
again, though the cliffs are low, and the pathway in
another mile drops suddenly to Hope, snugly ensconced
in a cove within the horn called Bolt Tail.
Hope is a primitive sort of place, but it boasts an inn,
where those who have good digestions may perhaps revel
in a meal of shell-fish, for Hope, though " a wee place in
itself, is a muckle one for crabs." Indeed, the male part
of the population appear, when ashore, to do little else but
prepare fishing gear. You may see them on the beach
stretching the lines from posts as they tie on the cork
floats, while all about the hamlet are piles of wicker crab
pots, the work of themselves, their wives, and daughters.
Hope is one of the places, too, where the traveller may
regale himself on White Ale, a product for which the South
Hams — as this part of Devonshire is called — is famous.
How it is made I know not, for the secret is shared among
a few, but it is a pretty powerful fluid — so powerful that in
hot weather it cannot be brewed at all. Nor will it bear
transport. " Suppose I were to take a bottle away with
me?" I suggested to the landlady of an inn a little
further up the coast. " Lor' bless 'ee, sir, t'wud blaw the
bottle to bits before you'd walked a couple o' mile." I am
quite sorry that I have never tasted this seductive fluid.
Exigencies of weather usually compel me to make my
X 2
3o8 White Ale.
pilgrimages at a time when white ale " won't keep." So
whether a former traveller is correct in his remarks about
the white ale at Hope I cannot say. He calls it a " milky-
looking compound, of which, judging from the flavour,
milk, spice, and gin seemed among the ingredients."
There is no doubt that white ale is a very ancient beverage,
for it is referred to by Henry of Avranches, Court Poet to
Henry the Third. It seems to have puzzled him altogether,
and possibly gave him a headache, for he says :
Of this strong Drink much like to Stygian Lake,
Most term it Ale, / kno-ai not -what to make.
White ale may be had at more than one place in South
Devon. I can speak with certainty of Kingsbridge,
Slapton, and Dartmouth, and I believe it is also to be had at
the little town of Modbury.*
At last the end of Bigbury Bay is reached. Whether
" the remoteness of this Cove of Hope is pleasing to the
imagination " is a matter for individual taste, but there can
be no doubt that " the view from it is suggestive of an
unexplored solitude." This bay is indeed a lonely one,
and the district has probably altered little in the last
hundred years. Nor is the next century likely to effect
much of a change. There are no towns, nor even villages
of any size, and the population is therefore scanty. The
way, too, the district is cut into sections by rivers must
always prove a hindrance to free locomotion, even were
there decent roads — which there are not. Bigbury Bay
is a lonesome place, and, unless some enterprising
personage thinks he can make a fortune out of the slate
cliffs, is likely to remain lonesome to the end.
* Since writing the above I have tasted White Ale. It is a grey muddy
looking fluid, with a taste resembling beer and egg-flip mixed. Altogether
it is an over-rated beverage.
CHAPTER XXI.
"THE BOLT" AND "THE START."
A Dangerous Path — Bolt Tail — Wreck of the Ramillies — Bolbury Down —
Vincent Pits and Rotten Pits — Ralph's Hole — Smugglers — Sewer Mill
Cove — The Bull and the Hole — Bolt Head — South Sands — Salcombe
Castle — A Plucky Royalist — Salcombe — Portlemouth — The Parson and
the Wreck — Prawle Point— Lannacombe — The Start — Wrecks during
the Blizzard.
IT will not do to linger long at Hope, for before us lies a
piece of coast, which, if the grandest in South Devon, is
also the most dangerous. The stranger who starts when
day is waning to cross the cliffs that lie between Bolt Tail
and Bolt Head must be rash indeed. For subsidences and
pitfalls are many, and the surface of the ground so uncertain,
that even the coastguard patrol has had occasion more than
once to alter the line of white stones that here and there
mark the track. A landslip occurred quite recently, and
there are signs that the movement will continue. This
landslip is at the western extremity, and, though awkward
enough, is a small affair when compared with the dangers
of the crevasses further on which lie on the very edge of
the path.
Except the gradual subsidence of part of the cliffs, there
is nothing worth seeing on Bolt Tail. Why it is called
Bolt Tail no one appears to know, but there seems a vague
idea floating about that, as the position of the two promon-
tories forming the eastern and western ends of this piece
of coast is similar to that of the "head" and "tail" or
feathering of an arrow or bolt, the name may be thus
accounted for. But I fancy that the word Bolt has nothing
310 Ramillies Cove.
to do with arrows or any other sort of missile. Like many
another Devonshire name, it is probably of unknown origin,
or traceable to some Celtic or Saxon word which the more
modern Briton has twisted into the present form.
A lane goes up the combe at the back of Hope village
towards the root of the tail — if such an expression be allowed
— which will save a considerable corner, and, if you are
fortunate enough to secure the company of the coastguard,
the farmer will raise no objection to your crossing his fields
right away to the signal station above Ramillies Cove. To
this spot from Hope is a pretty stiff climb, but you have
higher yet to go.
Ramillies Cove, a rocky inlet surrounded by perpendicular
cliffs, is the spot where H.M.S. Ramillies went ashore in
1760. Twenty-six of the crew managed to get to the
rocks, but more than seven hundred poor fellows were
swept into eternity.
Higher and higher, till we reach Bolbury Down, a fine,
breezy stretch of moorland commanding a wide view
westward. On a clear day I am told that the Lizard is
visible sixty-five miles distant ; Stoke Point, the Mewstone,
and the Rame Head almost always are. Once more,
and for the last time, we see the whole sweep of Bigbury
Bay with its sloping cliffs of grey and green slate, one of
them just beyond the mouth of the Avon shining like pearl.
Borough Island, too, is a prominent object, and a little this
side of it the dark tower of Thurlestone Church rises
against the bleak hillside. Behind it is the spire of
Bigbury.
Presently we come upon the Vincent Pits. These great
cracks or fissures lie between the path and the edge of the
cliffs, the beginning of a subsidence which will one day, as
the sea eats into the land, bring down in vast confusion the
front of a great precipice 4ooft. high. The " pits " are of
all sizes — here a long crevasse gaping for fifty yards or
Vincent Pits. 311
more, there a hole a few feet across. Many are fathomless ;
a few, where the soil has toppled in, give roothold to
shrubs ; but, however shallow they may appear to be, let
no one descend, or attempt to explore their depths, for
the ground is very treacherous. Formerly gorse bushes
were allowed to grow all about these death traps, which
were unprotected even by a railing, but the ground has
now been cleared. However, the " pits " are still unfenced,
and will, I suppose, remain so until somebody loses his life,
when the old saying about shutting the stable door after the
horse is stolen will once more be illustrated.
A little further on are Rotten Pits. Here, the landslip
being nearer the cliff edge, the rock has given way and lies
in great masses overhanging the abyss below. The process
of subsidence is still going on. Looking down from the
path you will see more than one chasm — in the solid rock,
too — showing that the time is not far distant when the
movement will recommence.
Bolbury Down is famous as the haunt of a notorious
smuggler, one Ralph, who, when pressed by the coastguard,
betook himself to a cave in the cliffs, and there kept the
guardians of law and order at bay with a pitchfork I The
cave, or, rather, fissure, still bears his name — Ralph's Hole.
All this wild coast was, in days gone by, a favourite
resort of the gentry who preferred to import their own
tobacco and brandy, and the " gaugers " had a rough time
of it. It is said that the system of picketing on the part
of the smugglers was so perfect, that the exciseman stood
the poorest of poor chances. On his approach becoming
known, the contraband disappeared into all sorts of holes
and corners, and the scamps were off across country, some-
times even as far as Dartmoor, there to lie low till all
danger was at an end, while their wives and sweethearts
down at Hope threw their cottages open with the most
perfect sangfroid to the search party of the exasperated
312 Ralph's Hole.
officer. There are old men still about the western coasts —
I knew one myself, and a fine old rascal he was — who
chuckle at "the way we did the gaugers," and who will, if
you only get them into the right mood, spin you yarns by
the hour about the good old days " when baccy was baccy,
and we hadn't to pay thruppence an ounce for stuff not
worth a penny." I believe half of them would be running
cargoes to-morrow were the coastguard but removed, in
spite of the heavy penalties and greater facilities for
detection. They talk of " the good old times " sadly.
An old reprobate with a red nose at Hope Cove told me
how in former days they had " cheated the Government,"
as he expressed it, and seemed to think they might do so
still were it not for the " informers," who, being entitled to
half the penalty, had " spoilt the game."
The signalmen who spend their time in popping in and
out of their solitary little whitewashed huts, and hoisting
flags on the staffs — for what useful purpose I could never
make out, nor do they seem able to explain — will tell you
(and glad enough they are of a yarn) what a terrible coast
this is for any ill-fated vessel that may come ashore, and
how the great tea ship Hallowe'en was wrecked in Sewer
Mill Cove some ten years ago. We drop into the cove
presently, a narrow, rock-bound bay, the sands wet with
the waters of two little streams that come down the combe
behind. Here, sure enough, between the Ham Stone — the
rock off the mouth of the cove — and the beach lie the
remains of the ship, which we may look upon without much
sentiment as no lives were lost, thanks mainly, I believe,
to the Hope lifeboat. Lucky sailors to be wrecked at the
only break in the cliffs, for miles !
On the eastern side of the cove is a cavern, which,
according to tradition, burrows beneath the cliffs and
has an outlet at Splat Cove near Salcombe. It is
known as Bull Hole, and owes its name to an adventurous
Ham Stone. 313
lord of the bovine species, who, on exploration intent, went
in at one end and emerged at the other. But lo ! his black
hide had become white as snow. Poor bull ! we all know —
or at least have heard — how the human hair may become
white in a few hours. The darkness (not of his hair, but of
the cavern) may have been too much for the bull ; the
uncertainty of his whereabouts distressing to his nerves.
For awhile — history does not say how long — he shared
The fate of those
To whom the goodly light and air
Is banned and barred, forbidden fare,
and, like the Prisoner of Chillon, his hair blanched.
The name of this cove is so unpleasantly suggestive, that
it is a relief to learn that it has nothing to do with drains.
Such things do not exist hereabouts, nor anywhere else,
I fancy, between Salcombe and Plymouth. The origin of
the word is, according to a learned writer, to be sought
in the Anglo-Saxon see-ware, dwellers by the sea. The
whole district, he says, is known as the Sewers, even
the farmhouses bearing that name. He gives us also
another piece of information — a "saying" of the
Salcombe people about the Ham Stone. If a married
couple remain childless for a year, the husband is
derisively told to go and dig up the Ham Stone with
a wooden pickaxe.
Again the path ascends, and, passing round a crag
overlooking the cove, gains the summit of another down
marked about midway by Clewer signal station. It is a
very exposed spot, and the furze bushes have been
trimmed by the wind into little round hillocks, which, though
of course smaller, look like the bushes of box or yew in
some Elizabethan garden.
And now we come to the finest part of the walk. Great
broken masses of rock top the cliffs, between which you
look down precipices fringed at the base with masses of
The Bolt.
mica slate, against which, even in calm weather, the swell
breaks in a line of foam. But how silent it is ! Save the
cry of a gull wheeling out now and then against the blue
sea or bluer sky, there is no sound at all, for, except in
rough weather, the murmur of the waves, more than four
hundred feet below, scarcely reaches the ear. Yet some-
how the silence is not oppressive. How " a denizen of
that revolving purgatory which goes by the name of general
society " would feel if alone in this wild cliff-land I cannot
say. I myself like such solitudes. I agree with Jerome
that "there is much help in silence. From its touch we
gain renewed life. . . . Silence gives us peace and
hope. Silence teaches us no creed, only that God's arms
are around the universe."
It is rather difficult to determine which promontory is
Bolt Head. The maps give it as the one projecting the
most to the southward, but the Salcombe folk, and, indeed,
the world at large, consider " The Bolt " to be the headland
crowned by the flagstaff immediately over the entrance to
Salcombe River, which is separated from the other by the
valley known as Stair Hole Bottom. The doubt is so real,
that the friend with whom I first visited this coast, and who
had known it all his life, could not give me a decided
answer. Probably the name belongs to the whole of this
particular angle, and the promontory nearer Salcombe is
now generally spoken of as " The Bolt " because its grand
broken outline is ever before the eyes of the Salcombe
people.
We come upon it suddenly, as the path, skirting a pile
of rocks, winds downwards into Stair Hole Bottom. At
the same moment another headland comes fairly into view
bounding the bay eastward. This is Prawle Point. It is
only three miles away, and we can distinctly see the bright
string of flags streaming out above the signal station
answering other flags hoisted on that great liner driving
Bolt Head. 315
steadily up channel. For the Prawle, the most southerly
point in Devon, is an important signal station.
The valley of Stair Hole always reminds me of Dartmoor.
There is the clear stream, there the rugged tor starting up
from the rock-strewn slope of Bolt Head. There are even
very fair imitations of those mysterious stone rows over
which the antiquaries agree to differ, though here the slabs
of slate are set more closely together, being really fences
put up as a protection against the edge of the cliffs. The
whole place is scattered over with stones and boulders, and,
if you turn your back upon the sea, you may, without
difficulty, imagine yourself in some shadowy moorland
valley.
Whichever route be taken into Salcombe, the scenery is
delightful. Those who are "rather -past their prime," but
yet keep a steady head, will naturally follow the path made
by a Courtenay which winds along the face of the precipice
midway between summit and sea. Overhead, great pin-
nacles of weathered slate stand out against the sky like
ruined towers. Below, the broken cliff sinks sheer to the
breakers. Outside, the gulls circle round the Salcombe
Mewstone, filling the air with plaintive cries.
But presently the track turns the corner, and lo ! the
hillside is covered with woodland. Trees, mostly oak
saplings, overarch the way, which is no longer a stony
desolation, but a grassy glade. Down between the trees,
two hundred feet and more, the tide leaps and sparkles
against the bows of a white-winged yacht tacking warily
up the estuary, for the Mewstone is not by any means the
only rock that lies off Salcombe Harbour. In a few
minutes, through an opening in the trees, appear the
houses of the little town, spreading along the side of the
sunny hill that overlooks the narrowing waters of the estuary.
Those who scale the rocky steep to the signal station
four hundred and thirty feet above the sea have a view
316 South Sands.
scarcely inferior in beauty, and even wider in extent. For
though the down be bleak and bare, and there is no
foreground of leafage, the eye ranges far inland, far along
the coast ; over the grassy hills that roll upwards from the
estuary and away towards Kingsbridge and Stokenham ;
over the steeper declivities trending away towards " The
Prawle ; " over a score of miles of ocean streaked with
many a current and traversed by half the shipping of
England.
The track descends through a plantation of larches, until
at South Sands, half a mile up the estuary, it meets the
Courtenay path just where it comes to an end at the road
skirting the cove. We pass the mouth of Hanger Mill
Combe, with its background of wood and rock, and ascend
and again descend past that oddly named mansion the
Molt, to North Sands, another cove, where the Brest sub-
marine cable comes ashore. All this side of the estuary is
wooded, for which we are duly grateful, for the climate
contests with Flushing, near Falmouth, the honour of being
the mildest in England, and there is little air to temper the
hot rays of the sun. In ancient days, indeed, woods
flourished where now is water. Both here, at South Sands,
and at Mill Bay, on the opposite shore, the remains of a
forest are visible at low water.
On a rocky point at the northern end of the cove stands
all that remains of Salcombe Castle, famous for its long
resistance to the forces of the Parliament. The Governor,
Sir Edmund Fortescue, actually managed to hold this little
fort for four months against Colonel Weldon, Governor of
Plymouth. When forced to capitulate, the Roundheads
marked their appreciation of his bravery by allowing him
to march out with all the honours of war, and presented
him with the key of the castle, which is still preserved by
his descendants.
Salcombe, which, if the prophets prophesy truly, will one
Salcombe. 317
day be a favourite watering place, is to-day a quiet little
village-town, the villas embowered in myrtle and other
shrubs that love a warm, humid air. There is one long
street running parallel with the water — not a picturesque
thoroughfare by any means. The upper part of the place
is laid out in terraces of semi-fashionable aspect, bordering
roads that will look better when they are finished, and,
though commanding lovely views of blue water, overlooking
at the same time a foreground of trodden turf and family
washing. In fact, the place is in an unfinished and chrysalis
state ; when the butterfly emerges no doubt things will be
better.
It is a quiet spot. Even in summer there is little life
about it. In a walk down the " long unlovely street " you
will probably see no one but a few sailors from some coasting
vessel and a yachtsman or two. Two years ago might have
been met a thin, stooping figure in loose tweed suit and
grey wideawake hat — James Anthony Froude, the historian.
For here, in a charming house beyond the Marine Hotel,
lived and died the author of " Oceana."
Murray says that Salcombe has been called the Montpellier
of England. And yet the hills above, and especially opposite
to this favoured nook, are bleak and bare, and, though
cultivated, the hedges which divide the pastures have few
trees, and those are bent and twisted, worn in their battle
with the westerly gales that sweep over the high, exposed
country about Bolt Head and Prawle Point with great fury.
And now, diving down one of the passages that lead from
the street to the waterside, we seek the ferry that shall take
us across the harbour — a harbour to which there is no pier
but the funny little jetty where the ferry boat lies — to the
further shore, the first stage on our tramp to the Start. The
ferryman has just come alongside, and sits on his thwart
placidly smoking a pipe of which nothing but the bowl
projects from beneath his bushy moustache. I have often
31 8 Portlemouth.
wondered how these ancient salts can enjoy their tobacco
through a stem perhaps an inch in length. I asked this
Charon if it did not singe his hair. "P'raps it do," he
answered, tranquilly ; " but then the hair be used to it."
Paying our fare, we landed and climbed the steep hill to
Portlemouth Church.
For there is no village of Portlemouth — at any rate, none
worth mentioning. At one time a picturesque cluster of
houses struggled up the steep hillside from the little cove
below the ferry landing place. But it seemed good to the
powers that were to pull most of the cottages down, and
the aspect of the eastern slope of the Salcombe estuary is
consequently very different to what it was thirty years ago.
There used to be a delightful old Parsonage, too, with a
priest's house adjoining, standing close to the water, round
the corner higher up the " river." But that has gone, as
well, even to the trees that stood around it, and a square,
matter-of-fact house, in which the picturesque element is
wholly wanting, has taken its place.
The church is dedicated to St. Oneslaus. St. Oneslaus
is a Scandinavian saint, and the legend of his connection
with Portlemouth is curious. In the days of the Vikings
the shores of the estuary were frequently ravaged by Norse
pirates. One of these repented of his evil ways, turned
Christian, and on the hill that had looked down on we
know not how many scenes of cruelty founded the first
church of Portlemouth.
None of this church, as might have been expected,
remains. The tower, however, is pretty old, being Norman,
though the body of the building is Perpendicular as usual.
It is embattled, and altogether has an appearance of some
dignity. A curious feature is the approach to the parvise
over the north porch, which is by a row of steps built on
the outside of the wall. Within is a fine screen decorated
with painted figures. A tombstone, dated 1782, has an
Portlemouth. 319
inscription that will delight the epitaph hunter. It records
the tragic fate of a farmer.
Through poison he was cut off
And brought to death at last
It was by his apprentice girl
On whom there's sentence past
O may all people warning take
For she was burned to a stake.
She was, however, first hung, the execution taking place
at Exeter. The author of "The Kingsbridge Estuary" says
that this is the last known instance of burning for
poisoning.
In those good old days — of doubtful goodness — when the
coastguard did not exist and when the Customs officer, if
there was one, knew better than to interfere with those
who looked upon a wreck as their lawful prey, Portlemouth
Church was the scene of an incident that would have been
comical had it taken place anywhere but within the walls
of a consecrated building. The parson had got to his
"secondly," when a man entered hurriedly, and, mounting
the pulpit stairs, whispered in the holy man's ear. The
parson's eye glistened, but he restrained himself manfully
till he had reached the end of this head of his discourse.
Then his pent-up excitement found vent, and shouting
" There's a ship ashore between Prawle and Pear Tree
Point, but let's all start fair /" he tore off his gown,
sprang from the pulpit, and, followed by his suddenly
awakened congregation, raced across country to the scene
of the disaster.
It is a dreadful thing to write, but these men — the parson
and his flock — were not anxious to save life, but simply and
solely to enrich themselves. What cared they for a few
Spaniards ? The vessel was a big galleon, and a galleon's
cargo must be of value. So the crew were left to their
fate ; for dead men told no tales, and the love of filthy
lucre was stronger than humanity. In vain the poor fellows
320 Prawle.
cried for a rope. The greedy scoundrels took care that
one of sufficient length should not be forthcoming, and the
Spaniards were drowned before their eyes. And to this
day the coastguard say that they hear voices rising from
the surf as they patrol the cliffs at night. One of them,
indeed, solemnly assured an acquaintance that he had heard
the words " More rope, more rope ! " in tones of agony,
and that his dog heard it, too, for its hair bristled with
terror.
A breezy walk by a road winding over the upland leads
to Prawle, a rough sort of village, which looks as if the
winds treated it with scant courtesy. Probably they do,
for it is close to the headland bearing the same name — the
name which it seems to have borne many centuries ago,
when people still believed in the myth of Brutus the Trojan,
and called all this coast the Totnes shore. That name is
now borne by the town alone, but " the original Totnes
(the projecting ness or headland — A.S. fatten, to project)
may have been either Berry Head or Prawle . . . the
name of the entire district became at last confined to its
chief town — probably of British foundation. "* Prawle
Point was one of the headlands always made for by
mariners of old navigating the English Channel, and a com-
mentator to Adam of Bremmen's " Historia Ecclesiastica,"
writing some eight hundred years ago, speaks of vessels
touching there on their voyage from Denmark to the Holy
Land.f At this very day it is an important signal station,
and the constant succession of bright coloured flags sig-
nalling passing ships gives a gay air to the common sloping
gently to the cliffs that in the days when the cape was the
" Prol in Anglta" of the commentator was unmarked by
anything save perhaps a beacon mound.
The gneiss rocks of this exposed headland are very
* Vide R. J. King's " Devonshire," Quarterly Review, April, 1859.
t Ibid.
BOLT HEAD AND PRAWLE POINT.
Prawle. 321
much weathered, especially on the western side, where
they would be swept by the prevalent wind nine months
out of the twelve. At its base wind and waves between
them have eaten completely through a large rock, and
formed an arch I dare say some twenty feet in height. The
coast is an awful one for wrecks. Close at hand, just
inside Gammon Head, is the spot where two Spanish
galleons went ashore, and within living memory doubloons
have been picked up — treasure trove after more than two
centuries. Off the Prawle H.M.S. Crocodile met her doom,
and at our feet as we descend the path beneath the coast-
guard station lie — or lay, for it is some time since I was
there — the timbers of a Norwegian barque. Of other
and greater disasters — for on this occasion no lives were
lost — we shall hear more as we approach Start Point,
the scene of some recent and terrible catastrophes.
Sheltered by the headland is the little haven where
the fishermen of Prawle keep their boats. It is only
a tiny opening in the rocks, and will hold but a few
craft, but the fishermen make the most of it, and have
even utilised an adjacent rock, converting the hollows
into places for storing their fish and gear.
The coastguard path runs through an undercliff which
slopes to the foreshore from a line of rugged tors, the
promontories, as it were, of the country above. Beneath
these eminences, which are clad with fern and underwood,
the path winds onward — for a long distance only a few feet
above the rocky beach. Here and there it passes through
an isolated patch of wheat or stony croft of potatoes,
detached portions, I suppose, of some invisible farm, which,
if the soil above is as bad as that below, must pay its way
with difficulty. The horses on these coast farms have a
bad time of it. I watched one poor beast attempting to
haul a load of grain up a field at an angle of something
like forty-five degrees, and it was not without a vast amount
Y
322 Lannacombe. — The Start.
of straining and pulling and pushing that horse and wagon
at last crawled up out of sight over the brow of the hill.
The low cliff stretches onward with little variation either
in height or shape. There are no coves till you get to
Lannacombe, or Lannacombe Mill, as it is generally called,
in memory of the mill which was once there. Here there
is a pleasant beach of sand over which a little stream
empties itself into the sea. This Lannacombe is not
without its story. During the French war a privateer's
crew landed and sacked the mill, taking even the bed from
beneath the miller's wife and her recently born infant.
But they were not ruined. While the Frenchmen were
busy over their work of destruction, the miller, trusting to
chance, flung a bag containing his money out of the window
with very little hope of ever seeing it again. But lo !
when the morning dawned and the enemy had departed, it
was found hanging in the branches of an elder tree.
Soon the pathway begins to climb and reaches high
ground under Pear Tree Point. Where the pear tree is I
do not know. It is certainly not to be seen. This head-
land rises into a rocky peak under which the path makes a
bold sweep, in more than one place dangerously near the
edge of the cliffs. In front is a deep rocky cove, the
further arm of which is the stern promontory of the Start.
Now, this Start is a very Janus face, for on the side facing
the east and north are smooth grassy slopes — as peaceful
a looking cape as you will find. But on this western and
southern side what a difference ! From where we stand
it looks like nothing so much as a rocky skeleton, barely
covered with a skin of turf. From vertebrae of rocky
pinnacles, seamed and fissured by the storms of ages, ribs
of rocks protruding through the grass descend to the cliffs in
lines curiously regular. The jagged tors — for such, indeed,
they are — give to the headland a strangely weird appearance,
increased by the eerie cries of the kestrels and other wild
Wreck of " The Mar ana." 323
birds which haunt their recesses, while now and again a
raven flits with hoarse croak across to the ivy-hung crags
of Pear Tree Point. As for the gulls, they are in millions,
and on outlying rocks stands the dark figure of the
cormorant watching for his finny prey, or drying his out-
spread pinions in the sun. On a shadowy day there is an
aspect of gloom about the whole scene, the only cheerful
thing being the white lighthouse.
On this autumn afternoon it is all pleasant enough. The
sun, getting low, slants across the turf between the two head-
lands, and there is scarcely sound or motion in the sapphire
sea below. So still it is that a Government surveying
steamer lies tranquilly close into the beetling cliffs that,
even on this day, rise gloomy to the turf above. Yet it
is easy enough to see at what short notice this cliff-
encircled bay may become a cauldron of foam, and the
grim Blackstone off the point, now gently lapped by the
waters, prove fatal to the stoutest ship that ever left an
English port. And there are few along this coast who
will soon forget that awful March Monday when so
many poor souls went down beneath the frenzied billows
off the Start.
It was half-past five on the evening of the gth of
March, 1891, when the wife of one of the lighthouse,
keepers saw a large steamer loom through the driving
snowstorm and pass close under the point. Hardly
had she reached another window commanding a wider
view when with an awful crash the vessel struck the
rocks. Before the lighthouse men could render any
assistance she parted in two, and foundered apparently
with all on board. I say apparently, for what with the
snow, and waves running mountains high, little could
be distinguished. Two boats, however, were launched
under the ship's lee, and the whole company left the
doomed vessel. Twenty-two were in the lifeboat, and
Y 2
324 Wreck of " The Marana."
four, including the captain, in a smaller boat. This
captain was a hero. Listen to what Anders Johnsen says
at the inquest. At the last moment Johnsen found
himself without a life belt. " I told the captain I had
not got one, and he said, ' Take mine,' which I did."
That is all ; but surely the generous deed of this noble
man who perished a few minutes later is deserving of
more recognition than that accorded by a bald news-
paper paragraph.
The boats pulled away from the rock, but in the
gathering darkness became separated, and the smaller was
never seen again. The crew of the lifeboat made for
Lannacombe Cove, but fearing the surf, which was tre-
mendous, struggled out to sea again, and did not adventure
another landing until Horseley Cove was reached beneath
Prawle coastguard station. But the hearts of the poor
fellows again failed them, for it was now quite dark ! Once
more they turned seaward, only to meet a towering wave
which capsized the craft. The Mag ledge smashed her to
atoms, and only five reached the shore, one so injured that
he had to be borne by the others, two of whom remained
by him, while another staggered off in search of help. The
coastguard, after attending to his wants, went in search of
his comrades, but many hours elapsed before they discovered
them — the injured man stone dead, the other two in a
furze brake in almost the same condition. The fifth man,
who got ashore unknown to his companions, perished in
the snow, which concealed his body for a whole fortnight.
Poor fellow ! he had had a hard struggle to reach the
inhospitable shore. His legs were terribly lacerated by the
sharp slate rocks, and his garments nearly torn from his
body.
Such is the story of the wreck of the Marana — a story that
for many a year will be told by every fisherman's fireside,
from Hallsands to Prawle — a tragedy more than any other
Wreck of " The Dryad!1 325
marking the blizzard of March, 1891. I have told it shortly
for, alas ! other lives were lost within hail of the Start
Light that terrible evening.
Before day dawned another ship had gone to her
destruction. About midnight, and while the coast was
being searched for survivors of the Marana, the head
keeper at the lighthouse was startled by seeing lights
right under the headland. So furious was the howling of
the storm that no sound could be heard, and no cry of
distress came up to guide the brave keepers as, with hand
clasped in hand to prevent being blown into the sea, they
felt their way down the cliff. And when they reached the
seething waters there was nothing — not a sign — to show
where a few minutes before a gallant ship had floated.
The mad breakers rushed up the cliffs or were torn to
shreds by the blast, and, exhausted and covered with snow,
the would-be rescuers reached the turf above. So terrible
was the wind that the very coastguard could scarcely see —
" Their eyes seemed as if they were being pricked with
needles, and they were bloodshot next morning as the
result of the strain they had been put to."
Day broke, and on a sea-washed rock the watchers
descried a human form, and hastened to his assistance. But
exhausted with his vigil, numb from exposure, the poor
fellow was unable to grasp the rope thrown to him, and,
slipping down the rock, was swept away.
CHAPTER XXII.
START BAY.
Hallsands and Beesands — A Long Seine — The Dogs of Start Bay — More
Wrecks — Torcross — Slapton Lea — Slapton Village — The Bryans —
Poole and the Hawkins' — Street — Blackpool — Stoke Fleming —
Gallants' Bower — Dartmouth Harbour — Dartmouth Castle.
THE path now crosses the ridge connecting the Start with
the mainland, and as we reach the summit, and pause to
take breath, we understand that Steort, the Anglo-Saxon
word for "tail," was no inappropriate name for this
vertebrate promontory running so sharply into the sea.
There is another tail-shaped point in Somerset (though
this is low and flat) which bears the same name, and
here the old pronunciation still exists, or nearly so, and
people call it Steart Point.* But you must not tell sailors
of Anglo-Saxon origins et id genus omne ; for them the
Start is the Start — the point from which vessels sailing
down Channel start on their voyages. So be it ; let
them keep to their opinion, we will keep to ours.
Meanwhile we are on the summit of the ridge and
can almost throw a pebble from either hand into the
water north and south. In the latter direction we see
little, for Pear Tree Point blocks the way, but northward
there is a wonderful view of the great bay, with its semi-
circle of strand stretching nearly to Dartmouth Harbour.
Hundreds of feet below, built on the very beach under a
low cliff where the high, steep hills which here descend
* Pronounced Stee-ert.
Hallsands. 327
to the sea begin to break away, is a line of cottages
whitewashed and thatched. This is Hallsands. It is the
kind of place that one hardly expects to find nowadays,
except in the pages of some child's picture book, a
primitive place with neither hotel, store (co-operative or
otherwise), or, as far as I could see, even post-office.
Certainly the telegraph comes nowhere near it — a matter
here for intense regret, as there can be no doubt that
the absence of telegraphic communication along this
dangerous coast has been the direct cause of the loss of
many lives. This is no place for a sermon on national
negligence ; but I may perhaps ask when will England
wake up to the knowledge that her want of coast
communication is a crying disgrace, and that annually —
nay, monthly — valuable lives are lost and valuable property
cast away while legislators wrangle over measures the
consideration of which might well be postponed to a
more convenient season ? How many more ships will
be allowed to founder off the Start, off Morte, off half
a dozen other headlands in Devon alone, before some
one arises to plead successfully the cause of our sailors,
and " teach our senators wisdom ?"*
Rows of fishing boats line the beach, and piles of net are
everywhere, for the inhabitants of Hallsands are fisher folk.
So are they who dwell at Beesands, a very similar hamlet
about a mile further on. And the fishing operations are
worth watching. I have done some seine fishing myself,
and looked on at a great deal more ; but I have never seen
such a lengthy performance as the "seining" at these
villages. Hundreds of fathoms of rope are employed, and
half an hour to one haul only — taking no account of the
casting of the net — is nothing of a job. After watching
* Coastwise communication has now been established. " Out of evil has
come forth good." But it needed the blizzard of 1891 to bring the
authorities to the point.
328 Fishing.
the yards and yards of rope that the two lines of men
dragged slowly from the sea, and seeing no signs of the net,
I inquired the length of line used. " Eight lengths of sixty
fathom apiece one end and eleven lengths of sixty fathom
'tother," said a son of Zebedee, tranquilly, as though a mile
or two of rope were nothing at all. And so by degrees
this two thousand odd yards of line comes in hand over
hand and is piled in great coils on the beach, until
suddenly the surface of the water breaks into bubbles and
splashes like a great kettle boiling over, and the seine
appears inclosing a struggling mass of fish, the cause of
all this commotion. Well out of reach of the tide are they
drawn, and then in the most businesslike manner arranged
and sorted, " the good placed in vessels — i.e., hampers —
and the bad cast away." Then comes the auction, which
to those who dwell in cities will seem a curious affair
indeed. No auctioneer is here with ivory mallet and
rostrum. An old sailor stoops and takes up a handful of
the gravelly sand, and the person who is bidding when
the last grain filters through his fingers becomes the pur-
chaser.
These villages are noted for a peculiar breed of dog,
a kind of retriever with a cross of Newfoundland. They
are large and strong, and so useful to the fishing folk that
without them there would in rough weather be much delay
in beaching the boats. For the dog of these villages
knows no fear, and is as careless of the surf as the gulls
themselves. He will swim out to the boat that cannot get
near enough to the beach for a line to be cast to those
waiting, take the line in his teeth, and carry it ashore.
Then, with little or no prompting, so well is he trained,
he will keep his eye on the " ways " — that is, the pieces of
wood over which the boats are drawn up the steep bank of
shingle — dashing into the breakers after any bit that may
get adrift. And more than once or twice they have saved
Dogs. 329
people from drowning. " But with all their good qualities,"
writes Mr. Fox, " we are bound to confess they sometimes
manifest a propensity towards cheating the Revenue!"
Here is an instance related by the dog's master. "One night
I was out with the dog when it was dark, and presently he
began sniffing about and then dashed off into the waves
and soon returned lugging along something which he
dropped and began digging a pit in order to bury it in the
sand. It proved to be a tub of brandy, which I brought
home and was very glad of, as my missus had been
ordered to take brandy." Another time a dog brought in
two casks, and again " he brought in quite a lot of them."
But now the coastguard are too much for the smugglers,
whether biped or quadruped.
Situated as they are, we are tempted to wonder why
these villages have not long ago been washed away by the
sea ; but the beach is steep, and though at high spring tides,
with an easterly gale blowing into the bay, the breakers are
almost at the door, they have never yet, as far as I know,
got inside it. Still, neither village could have appeared a
very safe place of residence in such a storm as that to
which we just now alluded. On that occasion, and almost
at the same time that the Marana and Dryad were
wrecked, two smaller vessels drove ashore, one under Hall-
sands Cliffs, and another close to Beesands. Of the crew
of the first vessel, two were saved by the fishermen, who at
the peril of their lives climbed down the cliffs and hauled
their perishing brethren ashore with life lines. In the case
of the wreck off Beesands, only one of the five hands was
rescued. This was the captain, who came ashore in a life
buoy, to which he had succeeded in attaching a line
from the shore. His crew, upon leaving the rigging to
follow his example, were one by one swept away by the
seas which flew high over the doomed vessel.
So ends this record of destruction. Within three miles
33° Torcross.
of distance, within seven hours of time, a steamship of
1692 tons, a barque of over a thousand, and two schooners
went to pieces, while fifty-two human beings were hurried
into eternity. The blizzard will be remembered by all of
us in Devonshire, but by none so well as the people
about the Start. Nor is the constable who had charge of
the inquest likely to forget his share in these disasters.
Leaving South Pool on Wednesday morning, when the
drifts were deep, he did not reach Newton, the residence
of the coroner (though only twenty miles distant as the
crow flies) till late on Friday night.
From Hallsands the cliffs become low and soon cease
altogether, and we look up a shallow valley into the country
inland. Between Beesands and Torcross is a mere, or
lea as they call it about here, lately formed by the landlord
of the Torcross Hotel for fishing purposes. In shape it is
an irregular triangle, and looks natural enough with its two
little islands and more or less sedgy covering. Like the
larger and better known Slapton Lea, it is separated from
the salt water but by the beach. A short distance beyond
it the slate cliffs again commence, a path leading over them
to Torcross, which the pedestrian is strongly recommended
to follow, as the beach round the point is about the most
fatiguing piece of walking possible. At every step you
sink in over your ankles, and there is really nothing to be
gained by keeping along the margin of the sea except a
peep through the gorge-like entrance of a deep quarry, now
abandoned to the ivy and other greenery with which the
crags are fast becoming covered.
Torcross is Hallsands and Beesands combined with an
element of modernisation. There is a big hotel ; there are
lodging houses. A coach visits it twice a day, and imports
the young man in blazers and the young woman in short
skirts. The principal attractions are the fishing and, in the
winter, shooting in Slapton Lea. This fresh-water lake,
Slapton Lea. 331
which is about two miles long, is curious. Its formation is
due to a bank of shingle washed up by the sea, which dams
back the streams descending from the country inland. Its
breadth and depth vary, but it nowhere exceeds half a mile,
and the northern end is a mere streak. Its total area is
237 acres, and " for the mere sport of fishing — that is, of
catching fish easily and in abundance — there is not such
another place as the Lea in the West." The fish are
principally pike, perch, and roach.
Slapton Lea is so full of reeds that the owner is said to
make as much as two hundred pounds a year by the sale
of them. They are used for thatching. The upper end
beyond Slapton Bridge is almost a solid mass ; indeed, it is
difficult to distinguish the water at all — it is a sea of reeds.
Along the top of the bank dividing the lea from the sea
runs the Dartmouth road. The lea is only a few feet
below it on the one hand, and the sea, at high water,
approaches very near it on the other. There is a story
that the waves, driven before an easterly gale, once washed
right over it into the lea, killing all the fish. I can well
believe it, having seen the sea very near it myself.
Enormous breakers thundered upon the shingle, and the
spray flying across hid the distant line of road in a white
mist. I was on the top of the Dartmouth coach at the
time, and the guard coming forward spread over us water-
proof aprons. He made no remark, and was evidently
continually in the habit of thus protecting the passengers
from the briny rain.
From this shingle bank came the first seakale eaten in
England. Here it grows (or grew) wild, and might never
have been cultivated had it not occurred to a gardener
living at Stoke Fleming to transplant some of the roots.
They did well, and after awhile some were sent as
presents to his master's friends at Bath. This was more
than a hundred years ago, when Bath was at its zenith.
332 Slapton.
The new vegetable tickled the fashionable palate, the fame
of seakale spread, and it was soon selling in Exeter Market
at half-a-crown a root.*
The country at the back of the lea is rich and well
cultivated, and pleasantly broken up into hill and dale.
Indeed, there are few coach drives more enjoyable than
that to Kingsbridge through Stokenham, where the Tor-
cross people go to church, and on through the long village
of Chillington to Frogmore, at the head of one of the
numerous creeks that give — on the map — such an octopus
appearance to the Salcombe estuary. The cottages of
these villages are half hidden in myrtle and fuchsia,
which flourish unprotected all the year round. There
is Charlton, too, with its massive church tower, on the
hill above Boycombe Bridge, which crosses another
creek, and hereabouts you will have a splendid view
of the estuary, with the serrated profile of " The Bolt "
in the distance. Kingsbridge is round the next bend
climbing the hillside at the very top of the estuary — a
pleasant, sunny little town that will now become better
known as it has recently been brought into closer
communication with the world by the railway. But of
Kingsbridge I have written before ; besides, it is scarcely
a coast town.
To return to the coast. A wearisome plod of nearly two
miles along the straight, level road on the top of the bank
of shingle brings us to Slapton Bridge. Crossing this, we
leave both sea and mere behind, and pass over the hill into
the village. Slapton lies in a thoroughly Devonshire valley
in the midst of green meadows and orchards. Part of the
village fills the bottom ; part straggles up a warm slope.
On this slope is the church, an interesting building, with
a tower that is said to be Norman. It is capped by a
spire which, though comparatively modern, looks quite as
* Murray.
Slapton. 333
ancient as the tower. A Perpendicular window on the
western side rather takes away from the Norman character
of this tower, though of course it may have been a later
insertion. The chancel, of the Decorated period, is divided
from the nave by an oaken screen extending right across
the church. In the vestry are preserved two quaint little
wooden figures of a gentleman and lady dressed in the
style affected during the reign of James the First. They
are supposed to be the effigies of Henry and Katherine
Dotin, or Dottin, whose brass, formerly in the church, is
preserved in the parish chest in a chamber over the north
door. The church is under restoration, but funds are
not easily raised, and the aisles are still disfigured by
" horse-boxes."
In private grounds overlooking the village rises a tall
tower, almost the only relic of the chantry built by Sir Guy
de Bryan, who bore the standard of King Edward the Third
at the battle of Cre£y. He lived at Poole, now a farm-
house half a mile away near the Totnes road. The top
course of stones has gone, but a pointed turret still
remains. Close by is another turret, small and of
octagonal shape, abutting on some hybrid ecclesiastical
buildings, built on to the house, and once in the occupation
of the " nuns " of Father Ignatius. These ladies some
years since migrated to Llanthony Abbey, the religious
house built by the Father among the Monmouthshire
mountains.
Slapton is another of the places where you may get
white ale. The Tower Inn claims to have the best
brew, not only in Slapton, but in all South Devon.
Unfortunately, I have hitherto had no opportunity of
sampling it. The jolly landlady, hearing that I was
" bound east," recommended me to try the Trafalgar Inn
at Dartmouth. I did so, but was again " out of season."
There would be no brewing, they said, till the weather
334 Poole.
became cool. This was in September. Another house
approved by her was the Plymouth Inn at Kingsbridge.
I am told that the taste for white ale is dying out, the
rising generation preferring beer. Perhaps this is hardly
to be regretted, considering what a potent beverage it is.
But there is, at any rate, one reason for wishing it a longer
existence. The lees are used in baking instead of barm,
and the bread of Slapton is the best I ever tasted. Barm
at Slapton is only used to make ginger beer. Failing
white ale, the Slapton people use the lees of potatoes. It
would be well if some bakers that we wot of would bake
such honest stuff instead of the wretched adulterated rubbish
that most of us have to eat. Even these out-of-the-world
villages can teach us something.
I have spoken of Poole, once the home of the Bryans.
Here at a much later date lived Sir John Hawkins, one of
the most renowned of the "sea-dogs " of Devon. There is
nothing now to remind us of the old house — the farm
buildings are quite modern and much like any other ; only
in the old walled garden may there linger memories of the
" spacious days of Elizabeth." The villagers say that until
quite recently an alley, or the remnants of it, led from the
house to the church, and that down it Sir John walked with
his bride over a velvet carpet. If this be true, the carpet
must have been half a mile long.
Returning to Slapton Bridge, we again take up our walk
coastwise. This road is dreadfully monotonous, and we
are glad to reach the end of the lea, and find ourselves
once more at the foot of cliffs which now stretch eastward
as far as the eye can reach. They are still of slate, not the
stern mica slate and chlorite of the Start, but of grauwacke,
and here and there of a pale greyish green colour. Nowhere
this side of Dartmouth are they of great height, the ground
breaking away at some distance inland and descending in
steep cultivated slopes to the edge of the precipices. The
Street. — Blackpool. 335
road rises at so steep a gradient that it is seldom used
except by pedestrians, vehicles taking the new and longer
"loop."
Pausing for breath at the top of the ascent — in summer
time about the hottest piece of road in South Devon — we
look back over the whole of Start Bay, with its seven-mile
border of shingle, its interminable road, and the three old-
world hamlets on the very edge of the breakers. The now
distant promontory, with its glistening white lighthouse,
presents a very different aspect to what it did yesterday
when we first came upon it as we rounded Pear Tree Point.
No one would believe that those smooth green slopes had
at their back the rugged cliffs and ribs of rock into which
wind and wave have beaten the southern surface.
A little beyond the top of the hill is Street, a village
which has nothing but its position to recommend it, being
dusty, dingy, and altogether uninteresting. Then the road
descends again, winding down the slopes to Blackpool.
Blackpool is delightful. It lies at the mouth of a deep
wooded valley, watered by a brook half hidden by a lush
growth of water plants. There is no village, but above the
trees rises the smoke of one or two picturesque cottages,
while in front, separated from the beach by some level
meadows, stands an equally picturesque country house. So
small is the cove that the grounds of this house border it
throughout the greater part of its extent, coming between
the beach and road. Access to the water, however, is
gained by a roadway passing through a plantation where
shrubs which would not have a chance in more northern
latitudes flourish luxuriantly.*
This sequestered bay was the scene of the landing of the
* In this bay is a submerged forest which, at low water of spring tides, is
occasionally visible. As often as not, however, it is covered with sand. In
1869 it was examined by Mr. Pengelly, who discovered a number of trunks
and branches imbedded in a " brownish-drab clay," but no indications of
tools, weapons, or animal remains.
336 Stoke Fleming.
French in 1404. The French having pretty well sacked
Plymouth a year or two before, the Dartmouth men joined
them in reprisals, and made a descent upon the coast of
France, in which the Frenchmen suffered so severely that
they in their turn determined upon revenge. Under the
command of Du Chastel they made for Dartmouth, but
unable to enter the harbour, probably owing to the
presence of an iron chain stretched across its mouth, they
landed at Blackpool. But the countryside rose en masse,
even the women arming themselves, and attacked the
invaders with such vigour that four hundred were slain and
two hundred taken prisoners, including Du Chastel, three
barons, and twenty knights. But this was not the end.
A month later Du Chastel's brother returned ; Dartmouth,
taken by surprise, was mercilessly pillaged, and for two
months the triumphant Frenchmen sailed up and down
the coast working out their vengeance.
Just over the top of the next hill is Stoke Fleming, a large
village, of which the church tower has been a prominent
landmark ever since we reached the Start. Although
high above the sea, the greater part of the village is in
a hollow — a prosperous-looking place, and well sheltered
from the gales. The church probably dates from the
thirteenth century, and, though very much pulled about at
a later period, has some Decorated features. The tower,
for instance, is late Perpendicular, and Perpendicular arches
have been built on to the piers in the nave. In the floor
near the lectern are brasses to John and Eleanor Corp,
dated 1361 and 1391. They are said to be the oldest in
the county. Another brass, dated 1614, is to the memory
of Elias Newercomin.
A lane leads past a farm and into a footpath which
emerges upon the cliff-slopes and follows the coast line
for some distance. Suddenly there is a turn, and we
look down a steep hillside upon a rift in the cliffs. So
Gallants Bower. 337
steep is the declivity that we can sweep from stem to
stern the decks of a steamer passing slowly under the
rocky shore, no longer up or down the open sea, but
northwards — inland. It is the mouth of the Dart, and
the steamer is entering Dartmouth Harbour.
Not that we can see Dartmouth Harbour, yet or even
Dartmouth town. Gallants' Bower — the hill top rising to
the left — hides both ; we can only see Kingswear Castle —
a square grey tower set upon the rocks almost at the
waters' edge. But Gallants' Bower is little above our
level, though if it were the summit of a mountain it
would still be necessary to climb to it. For it commands
the best view of Dartmouth.
Gallants' Bower is crowned by the ruins of an earthwork
thrown up by Fairfax in the Civil War. Scarcely to be
distinguished from it are the lines of an earlier fortification,
dating perhaps from British or Danish days. Both are
more or less covered with brushwood and trees, from
the branches of which depend clusters of wild clematis
and convolvulus. The slopes of the hill are wooded,
too, and among the trees paths meander in every
direction — paths greatly favoured by the youths and
maidens of Dartmouth wrapped no doubt very often in
the mazy glamour of love's young dream.
And, in spite of the wise conjectures of the learned,
I fancy that lovemaking has a deal to do with the name
of this hill. Here no doubt the gallants of the " good old
times " brought their Roses and Mirandas and Amelias,
and here, equally without doubt, they enjoyed themselves
quite as much as do their descendants of to-day. There is
another spot with a name very similar — we have already
visited it — Gallantry Bower, on the cliff-top near Clovelly
— where probably the same old story was told by the Carys
and Coffins and other gay young blades of the northern
shore. Why, then, go out of the way to imagine that this
z
338 Dartmouth.
Gallants' Bower was cut — like the maze at Winchester —
" in imitation of those mosaic pavements laid down in
cathedrals on which people were permitted to compound
for the performance of an actual pilgrimage to the Holy
Land ? " Provided the " consideration money " were not
too high, Gallants' Bower must have been a very pleasant
place indeed for such a " pilgrimage." Is it not rather far
fetched, too, to trace the name back to the times of the
Romans, and to look upon Gallants' Bower as a training
ground for youthful athletes ? That it was, as some think,
a place for Midsummer sports appears a theory far more
reasonable. But I like my lovemaking idea better than
any.
The harbour lies three hundred feet below ; Dartmouth
on the one hand, Kingswear on the other, both built up
steep slopes. Dartmouth is the larger and without doubt
the more picturesque ; in fact, Kingswear, although said to
be the older town, is not at all interesting, but dull — not to
say dingy. You can see the windings of the estuary nearly
to Greenway where Sir Humphrey Gilbert- lived, and where,
some say, his half-brother Raleigh smoked his first pipe.
The house — not the old house, that is gone — stands above
the steep timbered promontory on the eastern bank of the
river.
Right beneath us the steamer we sawr just now has
dropped anchor, and hoisted the quarantine flag to her
fore peak in token that she has come from foreign lands.
The tide swings her across the channel, and the narrow
strip of water is blocked by her long black hull. One
yacht glides past under her bows, another under her stern,
the captain of both, we may be sure, wondering audibly,
and in language none too polite, how much longer the
port doctor is going to keep her blocking the " fairway."
Further up round the corner, where juts out the pretty
house of the Royal Dart Yacht Club, its scrap of a garden
Dartmouth Castle. 339
bright with lobelia and geranium, are more yachts, from the
ocean-going steamer of six or seven hundred tons to the
tiny cutter of twenty. " Raters " with canvas enough,
one would think, to lift them out of the water altogether,
scud up and down and in and out, practising for one of
the many matches that are the delight of amphibious
Dartmouth. I know these raters, and if you had been out
in a new (and untried) one round the buoy there beyond
the harbour mouth you would know them, too. I had no
idea that I was so active until a puff laid us on our beam
ends — if there are any beam ends to these craft. The
way I climbed up to windward was remarkable.
But besides the yachts there are other vessels not so
graceful. Moored in mid-stream are divers hulks, the
carcases of ships that have sailed their last voyage. These
have been converted into colliers. For Dartmouth, besides
being a great yachting place, is not without importance
commercially, and it is not the trim steam yacht only that
wants coal. It is the port of call of many " tramps," and
of the steamers of one or two passenger lines, though
the most important — the Castle to South Africa — knows
it no more. And off the northern end of the town lie the
naval training ships Britannia and Hindostan, connected
with each other by a covered gangway. In their dismasted
condition they are not picturesque, and, though cleaner,
look scarcely more attractive than the colliers.
At the seaward base of the hill, on a rocky point, stands
Dartmouth Castle. There are two towers, one round, and
originally built about the time of Henry the Seventh ; the
other, of later date, is square. As neither would be much
good in modern warfare, a battery has been built close by.
Adjoining is the old church of St. Petrox. In Turner's
picture " Dartmouth Castle " the tower of this church has
a short spire, but this is now gone. The church contains
little of interest except a so-called " Saxon " font and three
Z 2
34° Dartmouth Castle.
old brasses — one to John Roope, dated 1609; another to
Barbara Plumleigh, dated 1610; a third to Mrs. Dorothy
Rous, dated 1617. John Roope is represented in full dress.
Below him may be read these lines :
'Twas not a winded nor a withered face
Nor long gray hares nor dimness in the eyes
Nor feble limbs nor uncoth trembling pace
Presadg'd his death that here intombed lies
His time was come his maker was not bounde
To let him live till all theis marks were founde
His time was come that tyme he did imbrace
With sense and feeling with a joyfull harte
As his best passage to a better place
Where all his cares are ended and his smarte
This roope was blest that trusted in God alone
He lives twoe lives where others live but one.
At the back of church and castle, a few yards up the
hill, some fragments of ivy-covered ruin mark the site
of an old manor house, the property of the Southcote
family. The whole group of castle, church, and ruin
has a quaint semi-foreign look. It is best seen from the
water. From an artistic point of view the appearance of
the round tower is rather marred by an armadillo-like
covering of slate.
On the opposite shore, immediately beneath the grounds
of Brookhill, are the ruins of another castle — a mere
fragment. This castle commanded a place in the rocks
where the great chain was made fast for securing the
harbour mouth. This chain stretched across the Jawbones,
as the channel is called, to the round tower, where it was
apparently wound up and tautened, a large roller having
been discovered in the wall of that building over which the
chain is supposed to have been drawn. At what date this
chain was first brought into use I cannot say, but it is
mentioned in a record of 1481, where Edward the Fourth
covenants with the townsfolk of Dartmouth to pay them an
annual sum of £30 if they will erect a new tower and
Kings-wear Castle. 341
stretch a chain across the mouth of the harbour. This
tower (if ever built) has disappeared, and perhaps the present
round tower was erected instead of it. The latter, as I
said just now, dates from the reign of Henry the Seventh,
and was the result of an agreement between that monarch
and the men of Dartmouth, containing terms very similar
to those entered into by his predecessor. Henry, however,
notwithstanding his well-known parsimony, offers more —
viz., £40 — and perhaps the extra £10 3. year touched the
hearts — or the pockets — of the men of Dartmouth. For
their £40 the corporation have to build " a strong and
mighty tower and bulwark, with lime and stone, furnish the
same with guns, artillery and ordnance and find a chain in
length and strength sufficient."*
As for Kingswear Castle, which stands as low as or
perhaps even lower than that of Dartmouth, its lot is one
of peace. Its owner, Mr. Seale-Hayne, M.P., has made
it into an occasional residence, though happily without
interfering with its picturesque appearance. It is grey and
weather-beaten, as it well may be, for in an easterly gale it
is drenched with spray from foundation to battlement.
* Browne Willis's " Notitia Parliamentaria."
CHAPTER XXIII.
DARTMOUTH AND BRIXHAM.
Dartmouth — St. Saviour's Church — John Hawley — Townstall — History of
Dartmouth — Kingswear — Down Head — Sharpham Point — Berry
Head— Old Forts — Landing of William of Orange — Varwell and his
Adventure — Napoleon's Visit — " Resurrection Bob " — Brixham Quay
and " Brixham Lords."
A ROAD, following the winding of the shore, leads from
Dartmouth Castle to Dartmouth town. After passing at
the back of the grounds of Gunfield, it turns suddenly
westward in order to get round Warfleet Creek. The view
here is charming, the harbour being seen through a screen
of foliage. Leaving the brewery behind, we find ourselves
in a long, narrow street which descends into the centre of
the town, presently forking. The upper part of the fork
takes us into Higher Smith Street. Here are one or two
of those old houses with projecting gables and richly
carved fronts for which Dartmouth is — or, rather, was —
nearly as famous as Chester. The lower branch ends upon
the open space facing the quay and steamboat pier. Here
the old houses have been removed, but some of the
modern ones erected in their place are very fair efforts at
perpetuating the characteristics of the ancient tenements.
Close by is the much quoted Butter Walk, a row of houses
with most elaborately carved brackets and woodwork, built
by one Hayman for himself and his five daughters in 1635.
They are supported by granite pillars, thus making a kind
of piazza or covered way. At right angles to the Butter
Walk is Fosse-street, where there are more picturesque
St. Saviour's. 343
houses. The southern end of this street is closed by the
tower of St. Saviour's Church, which we will now visit.
The architecture of this church, which was built late in
the fourteenth century, is in nowise remarkable. Externally
the building is plain enough, and grimed with the smoke of
the surrounding houses. On the south door is some extra-
ordinary ironwork representing a tree in full leaf, the trunk
apparently running through the bodies of lions, though,
as the work is in one piece, it is difficult to say whether
the lions are meant to be impaled or not. The date is
1631. But the interior of the church is most interesting.
It contains a wonderfully sculptured stone pulpit, and an
oak screen delicately carved and stretching from wall to
wall. Both are painted. On the top of the screen is a
modern rood standing between figures of the Virgin and
the Magdalen.
The altar is as gorgeous as either pulpit or screen. It is
painted and gilded profusely, and the panels are divided
by saintly figures. In a light building all this colouring
would have a gaudy effect, but St. Saviour's is so dark
that the richness of the tints is hardly noticeable.
As a rule galleries disfigure a church. Here, however,
the panels are so filled with emblazoned escutcheons that
one almost forgets that the structure itself is scarcely a
thing of beauty. Over it, at the extreme west end of the
church, is a large painting by Brockedon of Christ raising
the Widow's Son. At the opposite end, in the chancel, are
some curious brasses, one to John Hawley and his two wives,
the other to Gilbert Staplehill, Mayor of Dartmouth at the
beginning of the seventeenth century. The Hawley brasses
are the earlier — indeed, they are among the earliest in
Devonshire. Joan Hawley died in 1394, and Alice in 1403,
while John survived till 1408. It will be remarked that
he is represented clasping the hand of his first wife only ;
perhaps he did not get on quite so well with the second ?
344 Townstall.
This worthy was the most celebrated among the fighting
Dartmouth merchants of the Middle Ages. He is said to
have equipped a fleet at his own expense wherewith to harry
the French. At any rate, he " tooke 34 shippes laden with
wyne to the summe of fifteen hundred tunnes." Gilbert
Staplehill does not appear to have been so famous. How-
ever, he has a longer epitaph, and a couplet more sensible
because less eulogistic than those generally engraved to the
memory of prominent characters. This is what he says :
Behold thy selfe by mee
I was as thou art now
And thou in tyme shaltbe
Even Dust as I am now
So doth this figure paynt to thee
The Forme and state of eche degree.
A mile distant, on the top of the high hill behind the
town, the tower ot St. Clement's or Townstall Church
stands out against the sky. This is the mother church of
Dartmouth, but, being at such a distance from the town,
has been less favoured than St. Saviour's. All that I know
about it is what I have derived from guide books — which
is nothing — for, after a grilling climb of half an hour up one
of the worst hills in Devonshire, I found it locked. Nor
was the key to be had at the farm adjoining — the only
house near. Where was the sexton ? Nobody knew —
they did not even know where he lived. Where was the
vicarage ? Down in the town. I looked down that terrible
hill upon the housetops three hundred feet below, and —
gave it up. The vicar might be out, and it really was too
hot to hunt up "Joe" of whereabouts unknown. But I
really think that, considering the position of Townstall
Church, arrangements might be made for leaving the key
at the farm.
And so I can tell you nothing about Townstall, except
that there are some geometrical features showing that the
church dates back to somewhere about the thirteenth
History. 345
century. And it was once turned into a fort. When
Fairfax descended on Dartmouth, Townstall Church was
garrisoned by the Cavaliers. A hundred men held the
church, while ten guns were mounted on the tower. It
took some trouble to dislodge these defenders, but, as
usual, Fairfax had the best of it.
But I have begun the history of Dartmouth at the wrong
end. For a history the old seaport has, nearly as stirring
if not so varied as that of Plymouth. Its mariners were
noted for courage and daring, and from Dartmouth Chaucer
took his " ship man."
For aught I know he was of Dertemuthe.
It was to Dartmouth that in 1049 Swain, son of the great
Earl Godwin, brought Earl Beorn for execution, and here he
buried him in the church, showing that there was a church
even in those days. From it in 1099 William Rufus sailed
to Normandy.* From it, too, in 1 190 sailed the Crusaders ;
and about this time commenced that feud with France
which was kept alive for so many years. During the absence
of the Crusaders the town was burned by the French,
notwithstanding the fact that English and French were
fighting shoulder to shoulder in Palestine. In 1338 —
how many fights there were between, I know not — the
Dartmouth men captured five French ships, and of the
crews only nine men ever saw France again. Fours years
later it received its charter of incorporation as Clifton-
Dartmouth-Hardness, the name by which it is still known
in official records, and soon after sent thirty-one ships to
the siege of Calais. In 1377 the French again reduced
the town to ashes. The combined descent of Plymouth
and Dartmouth upon the seaboard of France in 1403,
Du Chastel's failure at vengeance in the ensuing year, and
his brother's too successful attack later, I have referred to
already.
* "The Early History of Dartmouth." By P. Q. Karkeek. T. D. A.,xii., p. 572
346 History.
In the wars of the Roses, Dartmouth appears to have
taken the side of the Lancastrians. At any rate it
permitted the Earl of Warwick and the Duke of Clarence
to use it as the port of embarkation when they sailed to
France for reinforcements.
Dartmouth men and Dartmouth vessels were well
represented in the fleet that hung on the flanks of the
Armada as it sailed up the Channel, down which it was
never to return. And by-and-by, when the great carrack
Madre di Dios was captured on her voyage home from the
West Indies, Dartmouth was the port to which she was
brought, and great was the spoil. Before the authorities
in far-away London could prevent it, a great part of the
merchandise with which she was freighted had become
scattered throughout the neighbourhood. " Most of the
country houses near Dartmouth," says Murray, " had been
enriched with treasures from the carrack — hangings, plate,
or inlaid woods." Truly the Dartmouth men were not very
particular. The law of meum and tuum, I am afraid,
sometimes met with little respect in the " good old times."
Piracy was little accounted of in the days of Elizabeth.
In the Civil War the town, which had thrown in its lot
with the Parliament, was taken by Prince Maurice. The
King's party held it for three years ; then it fell before the
indomitable Fairfax.
Such is an outline of the history of the picturesque old
seaport. I have gone into it at greater length elsewhere,
and have also made some allusion to other worthies besides
John Hawley. Of the Gilberts, of Raleigh, and of John Davis
" the navigator," who dwelt at Sandridge, a house over-
looking the broad reach of the river above Dittisham, I
have also said enough, nor has Newcomen been forgotten,
the greatest of our early engineers.* His house has
unfortunately been pulled down, but portions of it may still
* " The Rivers of Devon.'1
Kingswear. 347
be seen at Newcomen Cottage on Ridge Hill, where some
of the carved work decorating the front has been utilised in
a very skilful manner. Some plaster work from the same
place, showing the Three Children before Nebuchadnezzar,
may be seen at Brookhill, near Kingswear, where also,
among other relics brought from Sir Humphrey Gilbert's
house at Greenway, is shown a portion of the mantelpiece
under which Sir Walter Raleigh is supposed to have smoked
his first pipe.
Crossing to Kingswear by the ferry steamer, we once more
come upon the railway — the first time since we left Plymouth.
No part of the Devonshire coast is more free from the
inroads of the iron horse than the fifty miles lying between
these two seaports. Nor, with one exception, do I suppose
that the Great Western Railway Company ever will find it
profitable to establish communication with this long stretch
of seaboard. The one exception is Salcombe. For that
place there is some chance, for a feeler has already
been thrown out as far as Kingsbridge, and, as Salcombe
shows some sign of growth, I take it upon myself to
prophesy that, before another decade has passed, there
will be a railway station at Salcombe. Ten years seems a
long time, does it not ? But things move slowly in South
Devon. And not a few will regret when the railway does
come, for the little town inside the Bolt is one of the few
watering places in England free from the excursionist horde.
But I am digressing.
There is little to see in Kingswear, nor is there much in
the coast line between its castle and Froward Point that we
have not already seen from the shore opposite. It is
worth while, however, to follow the road and path past
Brookhill to the very mouth of the bay, and, leaving the tall
and very ugly landmark (for all the world like a factory
chimney on four legs) on the hill top to the left, explore the
pretty coves of Old Mill Bay, Padcombe Cove, and Ivy
348 Sharpham Point. — Durl Head.
Cove. Off the former lies the serrated mass of another
Mewstone, a large and bold rock, and the smaller crags
called the Cat Stone and the East Black Stone, while
beyond is the grassy promontory of Down Head. From
this there is a good view of the coast as far as Sharpham
Point, which conceals the bolder cape of Berry Head,
towards which we shall now direct our steps. It is a lonely
walk, for, with the exception of the coastguard station at
Man Sands, not a building, except a ruined mine on Durl
Head, greets the eye, and it is parlous tiring — up and down
the whole way. There can be no doubt that this rather bare
piece of coast is best seen — as I have seen it more than once
or twice — from the sea. For the colouring is very rich, the
cliffs being composed of limestone and slate, with here and
there a patch of red sandstone. The tints about Durl Head
are most delicate, ranging from steel grey to the palest
pink — the latter colour due, I believe, to peroxide of iron.
From Down Head the path descends to an open bay
fringed by the line of Scabbacombe Sands — a pleasant place
for a bathe. Then there is another climb, for, although the
cliffs themselves are of no height, the hills are, until another
descent takes us to the white row of coastguard cottages at
Man Sands. Hence to Durl Head there is no path at all,
though probably no one will object to the very harmless
trespassing over the rough fields at the back of Sharpham
Point (where there is a raised beach), and along the curve
of Mudstone Bay, a cove with a sandy beach hemmed in
between Sharpham Point and Durl Head. From Durl Head
we look down upon the Cod Rocks — crags bright with orange
lichen — while between them and the land is yet another
Mewstone. And so, the cliffs now becoming more precipi-
tous, we ramble, or, rather, scramble, over Oxley Head, and
there, close at hand, are the ruined forts that crown the long,
straight grey wall of Berry Head.
The summit of Berry Head is a good wide table-land
Berry Head. 349
covered with turf when it is not covered with furze brake.
Open and breezy though it be, it is rather a melancholy
spot, for it is laden with ruins — the ruins of forts erected
at the time of the threatened French invasion. These
buildings succeeded earlier fortifications, dating from
Roman times, or perhaps earlier still. Of these no traces
remain. A misty tradition states that Berry Head was the
spot where Vespasian and Titus landed. This is impossible,
as the cliffs are much too precipitous. There is no. doubt,
however, that there was Roman masonry in the old
ramparts, and there have also been " finds " of Roman
coins. And one of the many caves in the limestone
(known as Ash Hole) appears to have been used by the
Roman soldiers as a rough and ready cemetery. Human
remains, bronze, and pottery have been found there, buried
beneath the bones of the sheep, ox, and rabbit, the refuse
of the camp formed there during the military operations
early in the century. For it is said that in wet weather our
soldiers used this Roman charnel house as a cooking pit I
The fortifications at the extremity of the Head are less
ruinous than those of the older battery and much more
extensive, covering quite three times the area. One or two
of the buildings are still kept in repair, and the one near
the gate is a refreshment house much affected by the
people of Torquay and Brixham, for whom, on a summer
day, Berry Head is a happy hunting ground. And, indeed,
the bracing air of this wind-swept bluff must be like a
draught of champagne after the relaxing atmosphere of
" the queen of watering places," not to speak of the view.
For, although Sharpham Point cuts off the prospect towards
Dartmouth, the panorama northwards has few rivals any-
where. Let us seat ourselves upon the turf by the signal
station and look about us. So abruptly does the rock
wall sink to the waves below, that if you are suicidally
inclined you may actually sit upon the edge, and look
35° Tor bay.
straight down upon the breakers. But a seat safer and
more dignified will be found a few paces further inland,
whence it is still possible to see the rocks and watch the
long line of Brixham trawlers creeping past two hundred
feet below, their red sails contrasting strongly with the
pearly grey of the limestone.
Torbay is beneath us, and Torquay with its villa-covered
heights directly opposite, distant exactly four miles.
Paignton, lying in the middle of the bay, is half hidden by
the low red sandstone bluff of Roundham Head. At the
back a rich and fertile country, broken up into hill and dale
and full of soft greens and blues and greys, sweeps westward
till the horizon is bounded by the heights of Dartmoor, most
conspicuous being the twin rocks of Hey Tor.
This is the panorama beneath our feet, but we can see
more than this. Beyond Hope's Nose, the promontory
forming the northern horn of the bay, the eye ranges along
the glowing cliffs of Teignmouth and Dawlish — the houses
of the latter looking in the distance like little white
blocks — to Exmouth sloping upwards from the estuary of
the Exe, and, should the day be clear, you will see the tall
sandstone cliffs of Sidmouth, the white chalk of Beer
Head, and even, low down on the horizon, the higher end of
Portland Bill, looking at this great distance (it is forty-six
miles as the crow flies) really like an island. There is no
view on the South Coast more extensive, none more
beautiful, for, though there be little grandeur, there is a
wealth of colour such as no other part of the English
Channel can show. As Charles Kingsley says, " Though it
can boast of neither mountain peak nor dark fiord, and
would seem tame enough in the eyes of a western Scot or
Irishman, yet Torbay surely has a soft beauty of its own.
The rounded hills slope gently to the sea, spotted with
squares of emerald grass, and rich red fallow fields, and
parks full of stately timber trees. Long lines of tall elms,
Landing of William of Orange. 351
just flashing green in the spring hedges, run down to the
very water's edge, their boughs unwarped by any blast ;
and here and there apple orchards are just bursting into
flower in the soft sunshine, and narrow strips of water-
meadow line the glens, where the red cattle are already
lounging knee-deep in rich grass, within two yards of the
rocky pebble beach."*
This great bay, large enough to hold half a dozen navies,
is frequently used as a harbour of refuge by captains
unable or unwilling to face the south-westerly gales, and
the grey walls of Berry Head sometimes look down upon a
considerable number of merchantmen, and occasionally upon
one or two of those useful but certainly not ornamental
floating forts belonging to Her Majesty. But the largest
fleet that ever sailed into Torbay had no thought of avoid-
ing the elements. It came charged with a stern resolve ;
it came at the call of the English people. Never will the
old town of Brixham see such another sight as that of the
autumn day two centuries ago when the Liberator first set
foot on Devon soil — as a guest, it is true, but not at kingly
invitation. On the 4th of November, 1688, the anxious
watchers thankfully saw the waters of the Channel dark with
moving sails as William, Prince of Orange, attended by his
magnificent escort of more than three hundred and fifty ships,
headed for Torbay. Other watchers descried the coming
armament and were thankful, too, but from how different
a motive ! On the tower of Torre Abbey stood certain
Catholics scanning the horizon for the French fleet that was
to help King James. These mistook the ships of Dutch
William for those of French Louis, and, full of joy, prepared
a banquet for their friends. It must have been as gall and
wormwood when a few hours later they saw the sturdy
Hollanders falling upon their choice viands. There was no
Gallic politeness. " Instead of vostre serviture, Monsieur,"
* Glaucus.
35 2 William of Orange.
says one who had been on board the fleet, they were enter-
tained with " Yeen, mynhere, can you Dutch spraken?"*
Nor was this the only serio-comic occurrence in connec-
tion with the landing of William of Orange. " If I am
welcome," said the Prince as the boat approached the beach,
" come and carry me on shore ! " A little man nearly as broad
as he was long — no uncommon characteristic of Brixham
men (I can call to mind a worthy native of the fisher town
with whom I have voyaged who is just such another) — waded
in and bore William to the shore. It is said that the
welcome of the inhabitants took a poetical form, and that
they addressed their visitor thus :
And please your Majesty King William
You be welcome to Brixham quay
To eat buckhorn and drink bohea
Along with we.
And please your Majesty King William.
In an antiquarian magazine I have seen a query as to
the genuineness of this remarkable metrical outburst. The
Brixham folk do not look poetical now — no, not one of them.
And as there was then no " quay," while tea was an article
only indulged in by the wealthy, it is scarcely probable that
a colony consisting of a few fishermen could even have
heard of it. Why, a tax of 8d. per gallon was payable on
every quart brewed ! So I am afraid that King William's
welcome must have taken some other form, though that it
was a hospitable one goes without saying.
The little man — by name Varwell — who had carried the
Prince on shore, rode bareheaded before him to Newton and
Exeter, and William, pleased with his enthusiasm, invited
him to Court, giving him a note as passport. When the
time came, Varwell journeyed to London full of importance
at the favour shown him. Unfortunately, however, he
boasted so much, that some sharpers conceived the plan
* " A Third Collection of Papers relating to the present Juncture of Affairs
in England, 1689." In Colonel Clifford Lloyd's Library, Torquay.
Varwell. 353
of profiting by the simplicity of the poor Brixham man.
They made him drunk, and stole his passport, with which
one of them presented himself at Court and was duly
rewarded. When Varwell attempted to see the King he
was naturally sent about his business, and retired sadly to
Brixham. It seems rather strange that William should
have failed to detect the imposture, for the face and figure
of his stout little Christopher must have been familiar
enough to him. Indeed, another version of the story says
that Varwell did see him, and received ^100, with which
he built himself a house in the fishing town.* I must say
I hope that this latter version is the true one ; and if the
King paid twice over probably he could afford it.
The ship in which William sailed on his peaceful invasion —
an English-built brig — was, until the last few years, still in
existence. I cannot give the exact date of her breaking up,
because the book from which I gather the informationf has
none. But ten years before that book was printed — and it
is a recent work — she was afloat and doing duty as a
trader. William christened her the Princess Mary in
honour of his wife, and when he became King converted
her into a yacht, and as such she passed to his sister-
in-law, Queen Anne. King George handed her over to
his courtiers, and she eventually became the property of
some London merchants, who re-christened her the Betsy
Cairns. What's in a name ? Not much, perhaps ; but can
romance cling to such a name as Betsy ? Alas ! poor
Princess Mary ! Now she is a West Indiaman, and anon,
having once more changed hands, has become a collier. O,
what a grievous falling off was there ! Notwithstanding,
the sailors, it is said, loved her, " and had a superstitious
feeling that while the Betsy Cairns kepi, afloat Protestantism
* Trans. Dev. Assoc., vol. xii. " The Prince of Orange at Brixham." By
T. W. Windeatt.
f Cockrem's "Torquay."
A A
354 Napoleon's Visit.
would remain in the ascendancy." Her final owner was
Mr. G. W. Wilson, of South Shields, and it was while on a
voyage from that port to Hamburg that the good old ship
met with her last storm. Cast on the Black Middens, off
Tynemouth, she went to pieces, but not before the crew
had been saved by the lifeboat. Fragments of the wreck
" fetched large sums as relics of an object which, though
inanimate, had taken, so to speak, a personal share in the
building up of the British Constitution."
The next Royal visitor to Torbay was that fallen despot
Napoleon. For several days at the end of July and the
beginning of August, 1815, the Bellerophon lay off Brixham,
in the very spot occupied so long before by the armament
of the Prince of Orange, with the most illustrious — shall we
not say notorious ? — personage of modern days a captive on
board. And now the bay presents the appearance of a
gigantic regatta. In the stateliest of yachts, in the merest
cockleshell of a pleasure boat, the inquisitive throng to
catch a glimpse of " Boney." And " Boney " did not say
them nay, but was frequently seen in his uniform of the
Imperial Guard pacing the deck of the big warship. Yet
Torbay, which he very much admired, must have brought him
sad memories. It was, he said, like Porto Ferrajo in Elba.
He was not the last of his name who visited Torbay. In
1871 the "man of Sedan" came to Torquay accompanied
by the luckless Prince Imperial. " It would almost seem,"
says Mr. Karkeek, " as if Torbay was destined to be asso-
ciated with the ill luck of the Bonaparte family, for it will
be remembered that while under the orders and in charge
of an officer whose home was on the shores of Torbay the
Prince met his fate in Zululand."
One of the caves in the limestone of Berry Head is
supposed to communicate with the Laywell, a spring near
Upper Brixham, once intermittent, and supposed locally to
be affected by the rise and fall of the tide. This spring has
" Resurrection Bob." 355
recently been destroyed by a road contractor, and the cave
is now only celebrated as having been once used by a band
of smugglers commanded by one Bob Elliott, a daring
scamp who gave the coastguard more trouble than any man
this side of the Start. A humorous Devonshire writer gives
the following story, which he says he heard from the lips of
Bob's grandson : One week, when Bob was laid up with
the gout, his crew arrived with half a dozen kegs of brandy
for which they had been unable to find room in the cavern.
So the kegs were concealed in Bob's cottage. But some-
how the coastguard got wind of what had happened, and
the cottage was visited. But Bob was dead. He had died
during the night, it was said, and the officer out of respect
withdrew his men without making any search at all. The
coffin — a very large one, someone remarked, but then Bob
was a big man — was duly brought, and soon a mournful
procession left the cottage. But
'Twas his spirit they bore,
Whilst, to keep from a roar,
In a kerchief Bob buried his nose.
That night three coastguards met a coffin on the Totnes
road, accompanied by one who bore a strange resemblance
to the buried Bob. To the eyes of the terrified officers this
phantom glared
Like one whom they'd rather not name,
Whilst the nag cocked his tail
Like a harpooned whale,
And snorted a crimson flame.
Panic-stricken the men fled, and brought the tale to their
commander. But that gentleman was no fool, and, keeping
his own counsel, paid a nocturnal visit to the dead man's
cottage. Here, under the shadow of the wall, amid roars
of laughter, he heard Master Bob tell the story of his ruse.
To the dismay of the smugglers, the officer walked in upon
them, but, beyond giving them a sound rating, let them
off scot free. Perhaps he was unwilling to make public how
A A 2
356 Quarries.
easily the King's men had been duped. But ever after the
hero of the adventure was known as "Resurrection Bob."
Peering over the northern edge of the precipice, we
notice that quarrymen are at work below, and that a vessel
is moored right alongside — so deep is the water — ready to
take in the limestone. These quarries are somewhat
destroying the picturesqueness of this side of Berry Head,
but so vast is the supply that it will be many years before
any impression is made that will be perceptible from a
distance. Just beyond the quarry, where the perpendicular
wall of cliff comes to an end, a path winds downwards
through a sort of undercliff towards Brixham Quay. It
passes the mouth of a cavern, which, though extending too
short a distance into the rock to be worth exploring, is
made a medium for advertising the superior attractions of
another cavern at Windmill Hill, near Upper Brixham,
and, if the advertiser is to be believed, " Phillips' Cavern "
is well worth seeing. It was discovered about thirty-seven
years ago, and so interesting were the deposits, that
greater efforts were made to explore the more famous
Kent's Cavern, near Torquay. In this Brixham cavern the
explorers discovered flint implements, and the remains of
the cave lion, hyaena, and other animals. Attached to the
stalagmite floor was a reindeer antler, significant as
showing that in bygone ages our climate must have been
much colder than now — in fact, Arctic. For myself I
cannot say that I love these damp, dismal places, and, as
Windmill Hill Cavern is out of our line of route, we will
take the truth of the lessee's hand-bills for granted, and
follow the road to Brixham Quay.
Soon we come in sight of the unfinished Breakwater —
unfinished for the usual reason, lack of funds. It is scarcely
credible that the large sum of ^14,000 should have been
spent on the nooft. of masonry that shelters from the
easterly gales such of the craft as cannot find room in the
BRIXHAM QUAY.
Brixham Quay. 357
overcrowded harbour. As we turn the corner we come
suddenly upon the harbour itself, lying between twenty and
thirty feet below us, for the road rises a little as it enters
the town, though presently dropping again to the back of
the Quay. Here, in front of a row of tall buff-coloured
houses, stands a marble statue of William of Orange, one
foot upon a rock, representing him, I suppose, as he landed.
His left hand is laid upon his heart — if he had one — his
head is thrown back, and his whole attitude is a " speaking "
one, and no doubt illustrates his form and bearing when in
the act of making his famous Declaration. At the pierhead
is preserved the rock itself — or, rather, stone — upon which
he first stepped, and which is said to bear his footprint. As,
however, this stone is set in the base of a granite obelisk
(which also does duty as a lamp-post, typifying, perchance,
the light which this champion of Protestantism is supposed
to have shed abroad), we shall have no means of deciding
on the truth or falsity of the legend. The inscription is
short and to the point : " On this stone, and near this spot,
William, Prince of Orange, first set foot on his landing in
England, 5th of November, 1688." Close by there is a
tablet recording the visit of another William — William,
Duke of Clarence, afterwards King William IV. The
offering presented to him by the Brixham people was a
curious one — a fragment chipped from the stone, of his
greater predecessor.
The whole of one side of the harbour is given up to the
fishing industry — the industry, as all the world knows, of
Brixham. The Quay is covered with sheds which become
very lively indeed of an evening when the boats are
expected, and livelier still when they come in and discharge
their glittering wares by the ton for purchase by the dealers
whose wagons wait hard by. Many find their way to the
railway station, 2ooft. overhead, which smells of fish day
and night — indeed, more than half of it is reserved for
358 Brixham Quay.
fish business only. I have noticed boxes labelled " Billings-
gate " and " Manchester " among the piles awaiting the
train, so the trade is evidently no local one.
Those who have never seen trawling, the method of
fishing chiefly practised by the Brixham men, may like to
know how it is done. Well, the trawl is a great bag net,
the mouth kept open by a long pole or " beam." This is
lowered overboard and dragged along the bottom of the sea,
scooping up everything of a movable nature that comes
within its maw. Whiting is the fish caught in the greatest
quantity about Torbay, but of course many other kinds are
swept in as well. The fish most in request is the sole, nor
is the reputation of the Torbay sole any new thing. I have
already related how Quin, the actor, travelled all the way
to Bath in order that he might taste these fresh. On
awakening next morning, he was much disappointed at
hearing that, owing to a storm, none were to be had, and, it
is said, went to sleep again, remarking that he might as
well stay in bed till the morrow, when perhaps there would
be a supply !
The cost of the nets is very heavy. Sometimes the trawl
becomes entangled in wreckage or an abandoned anchor,
and is drawn up with a great rent, or has to be cut away
altogether. There are between two and three hundred
sloops belonging to the port with an average burthen of 45
tons. They are strong, well-built vessels, as indeed they
need be, for they are out in all weathers, and sometimes go
immense distances.
The merry boats of Brixham
Go out to search the seas —
A fleet all staunch and sturdy,
Who love a swinging breeze ;
And off the woods of Devon,
Or silvery cliffs of Wales,
Is seen on summer evenings
The light upon their sails.
" Brixham Lords." 359
Those who " dearly love a lord " will have every chance,
not only of seeing, but of hobnobbing with one of those
delightful creatures at Brixham Quay. They are as
plentiful as blackberries in a Devonshire lane. What
though they smoke Cavendish and drink small beer — they
are lords for all that. It came about in this wise : A long
while ago — I do not quite know when — a portion of the
manor was for sale. Twelve Brixham men bought it.
Whether each could have entailed his share had he so
willed, I do not venture to say ; probably he would not if
he could, for, with regard to the disposition of property,
your sailor has very free views indeed. At any rate, they
did not, and, in process of time, every one of those twelve
shares have been divided and subdivided ad infinitum, and
the bit of manor purchased so long ago is now the
inheritance of half the fishermen of Brixham. And thus
half the fishermen of Brixham are " Brixham lords."
The streets of Dartmouth are steep enough ; those of
Brixham Quay are steeper. The houses cling to the hill-
side one above the other at such an angle that many can
only be approached by steps. As for the odours, they are
inexpressible. One expects a good deal of fishiness about
a fishing town, but there are other smells about Brixham
Quay. Sanitary science is evidently at a discount. Further
up the valley, where the lower part of the town joins the
upper, we get beyond this unfragrant atmosphere. But
Upper Brixham is not at all interesting ; the attraction lies
in Brixham Quay and Brixham trawlers.
CHAPTER XXIV.
ABOUT TORBAY.
Paignton — The Palace, the Church, and the Kirkhams — Torquay — A Lotus
Land — Torre Abbey — De Bruiere's Revenge — Chapel on Torre Hill —
Climate of Torquay — Daddy's Hole and its Legend — Meadfoot — Ilsham
Grange — Kent's Cavern — Anstis Cove — Anecdote of Bishop Philpotts.
Green swelling' hills of Devon, foliage-traced,
With cliffs romantic, round bright waters close ;
Here blushes early, lingers late, the rose ;
The myrtle here surrounds the leafy waste.
C. STRONG.
AT low tide I believe you can walk from Brixham to
Paignton by the shore, and, when you have passed the mile
of cliff and rocky foreshore beyond the quay, the going
looks pleasant enough. And there are some pretty bays
washed out of the low red banks — cliffs they can scarcely
be called — that bound the meadows most of the way, such
as Broadsands, Saltern Cove, and Goodrington Sands.
Shallow valleys, sometimes rather marshy, and therefore of
an intense green, open on to the sea here and there ;
behind, the land rises in graceful undulations well sprinkled
with timber. From Broadsands the railway hugs the shore,
so closely sometimes that you look right down upon the
beach, and get flying glimpses of Berry Head and the little
fleet of trawlers lying at their moorings outside the pale
cloud of smoke that hangs over the valley where Brixham
climbs upward from its historic quay.
Paignton is so completely hidden behind Roundham Head
that you are in it almost before you know where you are.
Paignton. 361
The head shelters a harbour which keeps alive the small
amount of coasting trade with which Paignton is favoured.
For Paignton is no seaport. It is, and always has been
since first it ceased to be a mere village, a watering place.
And, notwithstanding the superior charms of Torquay, it
grows yearly in favour. For it has what Torquay has not
— a magnificent beach. In fact, this beach is the principal
attraction. For, to my mind, Paignton itself is hardly an
interesting town. The lower part is built on a dead level,
and there is an air of sameness about the place which is not
lost sight of till one reaches the long uphill street of the
old village, the best part of a mile from the sea.
Indeed, it seems to me that Paignton has been spoilt in
the laying out. The sloping hills in the background would
have afforded fine sites for crescents and terraces, while
the level near the shore was surely worthy of something more
handsome than the very ordinary villas that now border the
roads. However, to make up, perhaps, in some sort for this,
it has a good promenade, not to speak of a smart iron pier
from which there is a very fine view of Torbay.
Paignton belonged to the see of Exeter, and near the
church are the ruins of an episcopal palace. A tower
dating from the fourteenth century and a bit of wall are all
that remain. The last bishop who resided here is said to
have been Miles Coverdale, and tradition has it that in this
tower he translated the Scriptures ; but I am afraid that this
tradition, like a good many others, is supported by evidence
of very insufficient nature.
The Parish Church, built of red conglomerate, is a large
and airy building with a massive tower. Part of it is as
old or older than the palace, for, although the style is, in the
main, Perpendicular, the western doorway is Norman — a
very interesting specimen with varied mouldings. But the
great feature of the church is the elaborate stone screen in
the Kirkham Chantry. This beautiful piece of work
362 Paignton.
consists of a central arch flanked on each side by canopies
beneath each of which lie a pair of figures, male and
female, members of the family by whom the chantry was
founded. Below are statuettes of the twelve Apostles.
They are all headless, and the credit for this mutilation is,
of course, laid at the door of the Roundheads. The larger
figures have also suffered, and a good deal of the delicate
tabernacle work has been broken. Nor did the iconoclasts
spare the pulpit, which in shape bears some resemblance to
the one in St. Saviour's Church at Dartmouth; in substance,
however, it is different, being of oak. In the churchyard are
the steps and part of the shaft of an ancient cross.
In Kirkham-street stands an old house — one of the few
old houses left — which is worth a visit. It was once the
residence of these Kirkhams. There is little about the
exterior to denote its ancient state — indeed, it is not much
more than a large cottage. But there are still traces of
former greatness within. Beyond the ogee-headed oak
doorway is a stone arch ; in the principal room, formerly
doubtless the hall, a stone mantelpiece with key mouldings,
and, set deep in the wall, a piscina, or water drain. The
roof of this piscina is divided by ribs, and the ribs meet in
a grotesque head with the tongue lolling from the mouth.
The two miles of road that link Paignton with Torquay
are hot and dusty, and we rejoice to hear that there is a
little steamer running between Paignton Pier and Torquay
Harbour. On this we will embark, for, from its deck, we
shall get a far better view of Torquay than from the
highway. At once it opens out before us, its wooded
heights dotted with villas or lined with terraces. Broken
cliffs overhung with foliage rise above the water — a deep
rich red — until just beyond the Strand the limestone begins
again.
In a few minutes the steamer reaches Lord Haldon's
pier, within which quite a fleet of yachts and gay pleasure
Torquay. 363
craft dance on the ripples. Close by, to the right, is
a sloping cliff pierced by a natural arch, facetiously
termed London Bridge. Nor is this the only name
reminding us of the far-away smoky City. For the
roadway facing the harbour, lined with hotels and shops,
is the Strand, a wide, open thoroughfare, very different to
the narrow, noisy street that extends from Temple Bar to
Charing Cross.
One visitor, indeed, finds a resemblance in kind as well
as in name. " Imagine," he says, " portions of ' Padding-
tonia,' detachments of shops from Piccadilly and Regent
Street, and a few churches and chapels, migrated to the
warm wooded slope of a high Devonshire hill looking forth
on the sea, and you have Torquay." The principal street
runs up a valley, and on each side, scattered over — not one
hill — but over as many hills as Imperial Rome, scores —
nay, hundreds — of villas in every style of architecture gleam
through the foliage. None of them are anything but
modern, for Torquay did not exist at all at the beginning
of the present century; there was only the little village of
Torre. Torquay is almost of mushroom growth, and its
25,000 inhabitants have nearly all pitched their tents there
within the last fifty years. Their lines have fallen unto
them in pleasant places ; bleakness at Torquay is unknown,
and cold blasts pass it by. Neither the north or east or
west winds can get at it satisfactorily, and the consequence
is that the climate is mild to a degree. It is the very place
for idlers — and idlers abound. Look at those young gentle-
men there, strolling along the pier, or lolling on the seats —
most of them loll — laughing at the hurrying — no Torquay
man ever hurries — of the unconscious tourist bent on getting
a place on board the Duchess of Devonshire. Most of them,
indeed, have nothing better to do than indulge in this dolce
far niente, for a town that is said to be in proportion to its
population the wealthiest in England must have " a good
364 Torquay.
deal of the lotus-eater about many of its inhabitants."
Methinks if I stayed long enough in this pleasant clime
I should become a lotus-eater myself.
Having regard to the recent origin of the place, one does
not expect to find in it much that is interesting from an
antiquarian point of view. With the exception of the
mother church of Tor Mohun, a Perpendicular building
of no great interest, the churches are all modern — one
of them, that of St. John, a striking example of Street's
genius. But at the west end of the town are some ruins of
more than passing interest, representing, as they do,
the remains of a building which for centuries was almost
the only one overlooking the waters of Torbay. These are
the ruins of the Premonstratensian* Abbey of Torre — a
religious house founded by Lord de Bruiere in 1196.
They consist of a Decorated chapter-house (now roofless),
a fourteenth century gateway, a refectory (till recently
used as a Roman Catholic chapel), and the Grange, which,
for a long time has done duty as stables to the more
modern mansion. This Grange was formerly known as
the Spanish Barn, because the crew of the Capitana, a
warship of the Armada taken by Drake and handed over
to the Brixham men, were here placed in durance vile.
This building is as old as the thirteenth century.
The story of the founding of Torre Abbey is told in a
poem by Thomas of Plymouth under the title " De
Bruiere's Revenge." In the days of Richard the Lion
Heart lived Hugh de Bruiere, who loved Lady Hester, of
the house of Ilsham. Her he left to join the Crusaders,
giving her a ring, while she gave her lover a rosary. A
year went by, and then his rival, De Pomeroy, appeared
with a story that De Bruiere was no more. He had, he
* So called from the Valley of Premontre, where the first abbey was
built. The Premonstratensian was a branch of the Cistercian order; its
founder St. Norbert, Bishop of Magdeburgh.
Torre Abbey. 365
said, fallen in battle with the Saracen. So De Pomeroy
offered to supply his place, nay, pressed his suit hard, and,
after allowing another year to elapse, the faithless fair one
wedded him. But on the night of the wedding a ship
dropped anchor in Torbay, a boat was lowered, and a knight
stepped into it. As they neared the shore he noticed a
blaze of light at Ilsham, and on landing asked a fisherman
what it meant. He was told of the wedding. Pomeroy,
to whom he had intrusted a message to Lady Hester, had
played him false. But his time was near. The next
morning the body of the supplanter was found floating in
the Dart, pierced by a dagger. This summary proceeding
does not appear to have commended itself to the new-made
bride, for she would have nothing to do with the murderer,
and returned him his ring. Then De Bruiere is struck with
remorse, and, as a sort of expiation, builds Torre Abbey.
Lady Hester pines away and dies, and is the first buried
within the abbey precincts. Ultimately De Bruiere takes the
vows, and
For many a year beside the grave
Where Lady Hester lay,
A monk in prayer was often seen ;
But all have passed away.
There's little left of Ilsham Grange,
'Tis gone — as all things must ;
The abbey Hugh de Bruiere built
Has crumbled into dust.
Yet as we stand amid the wreck,
The sunbeams glancing through,
We sigh at Lady Hester's fate
And wonder — if 'twas true.
Quite so.
The grounds are, or were, haunted by the ghost of a Lady
Gary, a somewhat frivolous dame it would appear, who
enjoyed the pomps and vanities of this wicked world to
excess. Occasionally she is seen driving down the avenue
attired for a ball, and, on one occasion, two young women
366 Torre Abbey.
actually had the consideration to stand aside to let the
carriage pass ! They say that it was brilliantly lighted ;
they observed the coachman on the box and the gaily
dressed lady inside, but as the vehicle reached where they
were standing it vanished.*
The abbey probably owes its name to a rocky hill just
above the present railway station of Torre. This Torrehill
is crowned by a small Early English chapel dedicated to St.
Michael and formerly belonging to the abbey. The old
building has little or no history, but appears always to have
been held in peculiar reverence by foreign sailors, who were
wont to make a pilgrimage to the chapel soon after their
arrival in port, and this custom was kept up till very recent
times. This devout act was doubtless due to the veneration
in which St. Michael has ever been held by mariners, as the
numerous churches and chapels erected on islands or
prominent heights near the seashore testify. Who has not
heard of Mont St. Michael in Normandy, or of its less lofty
counterpart in Cornwall ? And not long ago we passed
Borough Island, once crowned by a chapel to the same
saint, who also had a building dedicated to him on Drake's
Island in Plymouth Sound. This chapel at Torre is very
small, only a little over thirty-six feet in length, yet there
are four arches, and each of different shape. The roof is of
stone, covered with slate.
About the climate of Torquay I have little to say. To
me it seems mild and enervating. Yet the medical men tell
me that I am wrong — at any rate, as to the feeling of
enervation, though they admit the mildness. They point
out that the mean temperature only exceeds by two degrees
that of the rest of England, and, by means of long and
doubtless learned sentences, would persuade me that, if
anything, it is rather bracing ! Being an ignorant nobody,
* Trans. Dev. Assoc., vol. xi. "Collectanea Curiosa Devoniensa." By
P.Q. Karkeek.
Daddy Hole Plain. 367
I cannot argue about the condensation caused by the tem-
perature of the sea being less than the dew, and so forth.
I only know how I feel — and that is lazy. Still it is a
delightful place, and, with an average winter temperature
of 46°, no wonder that it has a reputation among invalids.
Not that the " season " is confined to the winter months ;
the summer brings its birds of passage, too. And if these
birds find their nests rather warm, they can easily spend the
day abroad, for the neighbourhood of Torquay is full of
interest. You may bathe at Paignton or boat at Dartmouth,
picnic at Anstis Cove, or archaeologise at Berry Pomeroy or
Compton Castle. And if you want a real bracing up, you
can take train to Bovey Tracey and try what the air is like
on the top of Hey Tor. It is fourteen hundred odd feet
higher than Torbay, and / find it pretty strong. Maybe,
however, the Torbay Esculapii will call it " enervating."
It is time to start eastward again. Let us take the
pleasant foliage-shaded road that leads up to the common
above Meadfoot, to my mind one of the pleasantest spots
about Torquay. But it has an extraordinary name — Daddy
Hole Common. Daddy is said to be a soubriquet for the
Ancient Enemy, and his " hole " is a fissure near the edge
of the cliff, caused by a subsidence in the limestone. An
ash tree or two sprout from the sides, and there is a plentiful
supply of brushwood, some of which clings also to the face
of the cliff, which is very broken and picturesque. On the
landward, side the common is fringed with thorn trees and
shrubs, from which depend masses of " old man's beard "
and convolvulus.
The connection of Daddy Hole Plain with the Devil
is shown in the following legend. A damsel — who was
of course "proud and beautiful" — loved a knight — who
was of course "valiant." But unfortunately the knight
loved another damsel, with the usual result — that the proud
and beautiful one hated her successful rival with most
368 Meadfoot.
un-Christian hatred. One day she met on Daddy Hole
Plain a distinguished stranger who promised her revenge
if she would give herself to him. She pledged her word,
and on the following evening her friend induced the knight
and his lady love to come to the plain. Concealed among
the bushes she awaited their arrival, and when a favourable
opportunity presented itself stabbed them to the heart.
Thereupon a fearful storm arose, and a thick pall of
darkness descended blotting out everything save a steed
snorting blue flames, bestridden by the stranger, who,
calling on her to keep her vow, seized her in his arms,
and they sank into the fissure among the usual accom-
paniments of brimstone and fire.
Meadfoot, as its name implies, is a green valley sloping
down to a cove. It is, of course, scattered over with
houses — what valley anywhere near Torquay the octopus is
not ? — but the foliage is so abundant that they are scarcely
obtrusive. A road winds down to the shore, and forms an
esplanade, defended from the waves by a massive wall of
grey and black " marble." A little way out to sea is the
Shag Rock ; beyond lie larger islets, the Thatcher Stone
and Oar Stone with grassy summits — we saw them better
just now from the common at our back. The peninsula at
the end of the cove is Hope's Nose, where, as well as on the
Thatcher, there is a raised beach. And here I may mention
that Torbay was not always covered by the sea. In past
ages a forest waved where now is salt water, and Leland
mentions that fishermen sometimes dredged up antlers as
well as fish.
We will not continue our walk to the extremity of Hope's
Nose — by the way, is it not a corruption of Ness ? — but
take the road up the isthmus at its back which leads direct
to Anstis Cove. In less than a mile we reach a steep lane
coming down on the right beneath a rocky limestone hill,
where the shade of trees is a welcome relief to the dust and
Kent's Cavern. 369
heat of the road below. This leads in a few minutes to
Ilsham Grange, in the farmyard of which stands a quaint
old building erected by the monks of Torre in the fifteenth
century. In those days Ilsham Grange was the Abbey
Farm, and it was found necessary for one of the brethren to
reside on the spot to keep an eye over the labourers. This
tall narrow building was the result.
As we approach it, the pigeons are circling about the
granite bell turret, which, though much weathered, still stands
on the gable end. There are three floors, the lowest of
which is now used as a coal cellar. The first floor is
reached by a flight of steps on the outside of the wall.
Here was the chapel, a tiny room about twelve feet long
and nine wide, with a window of two lights (under which
stood the altar), a credence table (still in situ], and a small
slit through which the monk in charge could wratch the
labourers below. Above was his living room, the position
of the floor still marked by the joists. The floor itself has
perished. We can see that it was lit by three small windows,
and there are two more slits commanding the farmyard on
both sides. Overhead is the open high-pitched roof.
On the opposite hillside, not more than a few hundred
yards further up the valley, and on the left of the high road,
is Kent's Cavern. And, if you go to Ilsham Grange, you
should by all means pay a visit to Kent's Cavern — that
cave of primeval man and beast, the discovery of whose
remains so excited the scientific mind that the British
Association sent a small army of savants to explore its
mysteries. And there, after much digging, they found
all sorts of things dear both to geologist and zoologist —
the teeth and bones of the biped and of a great number of
quadrupeds, some of a genus still existent, as well as those
of a few that have become extinct altogether, such as the
mammoth and Irish elk. Quantities of bones belonging to
creatures that England has not seen for aeons were also
B B
370 Kent's Cavern.
turned up — the remains of the elephant, hyaena, bear, cave
lion, glutton, bison, and rhinoceros. And there were nearly
four hundred flint tools, besides sundry weapons in bone,
and again, bits of smelted copper, whetstones, amber
beads, and a thousand and one other articles. In certain
little recesses, fenced with a low wall, were knives of
flint, fragments of rude pottery, and shells arranged as
in the cromlechs of the Channel Islands. But I can say
no more about these " finds " here — are they not written
in the books of the Devonshire Association, and in other
works devoted to these and kindred subjects ?*
Beyond the curiosities — if so profane a term be allowed —
there is nothing very imposing about the cavern itself.
Perhaps I should say caverns, for there are really two,
though they are connected. They burrow under the
wooded hill for about two hundred yards, but are neither
spacious nor lofty except in places, where the width may be
sixty or seventy feet and the height twenty. There are,
of course, plenty of stalactites, but stalagmite has vanished
before the pickaxe and spade of the explorer. One cannot
help feeling a little awe-struck when one reflects on the vast
antiquity of this strange place where savage men dwelt two
thousand years ago, scarcely less savage than the beasts of
whose den he took possession, and who in their turn seem
to have succeeded, or have been contemporaneous with,
human occupants. For, in the lowest layer of all, three
undoubted flint implements were found with the remains of
the bear. How long ago these wild men lived who shall say ?
Kent's Cavern is not without its legend. It is said to
owe its name to one Sir Kenneth Kent, apparently an
adherent of Edward the Second, "who escaped from the
shrieks of the murdered king at Berkeley to find a
* An excellent account abridged from a lecture by Mr. Pengelly, F.G.S.,
will be found in Ward and Baddeley's " Guide to South Devon and South
Cornwall."
Anstis Cove. 371
treacherous welcome from Sir Henry Lacey of Torre
Abbey." * The knight loved Lacey's daughter Serena,
who warned him of her father's intentions, and, flying from
the house, he took refuge in the cavern. Here the lady
joined him, and they were to have taken flight as soon as
an opportunity presented itself. But, although Serena was
seen by some fishermen to enter the cave, no one ever saw
either her or her lover leave it. Years went by before a
man was found bold enough to explore the dim recesses.
It is said that he found a skeleton clad in armour ; by
its side the ghostly form of a woman.
From Kent's Cavern it is but a few minutes' walk to
Anstis Cove. It is impossible to make a mistake, for the
road sweeps round the head of it, and you can see the
sparkle of the water and the satin-like gleam of the lime-
stone through the leaves. A combe slopes steeply to the
shore, a lovely spot where paths wind in and out between
the trees whose shadow tempers the heat of the morning
sun. For Anstis Cove looks eastward, and, as the hills sweep
round the back of it in a leafy amphitheatre, the sea air has
not too much room to circulate, and on a summer's day it
is decidedly warm. At the top of the combe stands a
post supporting a great black board on which may be read
the following effusion :
Picnics supplied with hot water and tea,
At a nice little house down by the sea.
Fresh crabs and lobsters every day
Salmon-peel sometimes, red mullet and grey.
The neatest of pleasure boats let out on hire,
Fishing tackle as good as you could desire.
Bathing-machines for ladies are kept
With towels and gowns all quite correct.
Thomas is the man who supplies everything,
And also teaches young gentlemen to swim.
Having read this local outburst, we shall, I think, be justified
in resting for awhile on a seat by the side of the " Bishop's
* Walcott.
B B 2
372 Anstis Cove.
Walk," a pathway cut in the side of the southern hill, and
running away towards Hope's Nose. This, to my mind,
commands the finest view of the cove.
It is very small, not more than three hundred yards
across, and even this short span is broken. For, about
the middle, a mass of limestone has slid down from
above and formed a vast heap of ruin. At the northern
end the cliffs rise perpendicular to a height of quite two
hundred feet, looking down upon a tall crag, behind which,
alas ! quarrymen are busily at work. Still, not yet is
Anstis Cove given over to big hotel companies and the
tender mercies of the speculative builder. And long may
it remain undisturbed beneath its limestone walls — a
turquoise set in pearl. Nought is there to disturb the
loiterer but the merry shouts of some boating party,
or the laughter of picnickers. And he may, perchance,
get away even from these into a little dingle with trees
and shrubs and wild clematis galore where the cove is
only seen through a screen of foliage, and the voices
of the merrymakers are mellowed by distance.
With the exception of Mr. Thomas's tea-house, where, if
the above-quoted verse — done into Latin over the door —
may be credited, you can get almost anything from hot
water to a bathing machine, there are no buildings at
Anstis Cove. Indeed, there is only one in sight. This
is an Italian villa on the hillside above, where good
Bishop Philpotts lived five-and-twenty years ago. There
is rather an amusing story told about this villa. The Bishop
was exceedingly proud of Bishopstowe, as the house was
named, and a lady visitor, thinking to please him, rather
gushed over the beauties of the scenery, remarking that " it
was so like Switzerland." "Yes, "said the Bishop, drily;
" only there you have mountains and no sea, and here we
have sea and no mountains."
CHAPTER XXV.
OVER THE RED CLIFFS.
Walls Hill — Babbacombe — The Story of an Attempted Execution —
Oddicombe — Petit Tor — Watcombe Terra Cotta Works — The
Teignmouth Road — Shaldon Bridge — Teignmouth — Its Churches —
The Parson and Clerk Rocks — Dawlish — The Warren.
A SHORT, steep climb and we reach the top of Walls Hill,
a level down. On both sides of the path the ground is full
of cracks and fissures, the beginning of future landslips
which will some day again alter the shape of the cove
below. From the other side of the plateau we look
down upon Babbacombe, and perhaps the richest piece
of colouring in all Devonshire.
The down breaks away in rugged masses of limestone,
not harsh and bare, but covered wherever there is the least
soil with sward. Far below, embowered in elm, myrtle, and
hydrangea, is the picturesque village, separated from the
sea by a beach of white pebbles of which the further half,
known as Oddicombe Sands, is backed by a deep red cliff.
And, as if this were not colour enough, prodigal Nature has
bounded the bay with a headland of grey marble seamed
and weathered and broken, and descending to the waters,
not in perpendicular walls, but in outline varied and broken.
Vegetation fills every nook and cranny, and the grass,
especially as seen against the red rock, is of a most
vivid green.
Beyond the grey cliff the red begins again, stretching
away nearly to Beer Head, that white headland that
374 Babbacombe.
almost seems to melt into the shadowy line of the
Dorset coast beyond. Teignmouth is at last visible beyond
the Ness, but Dawlish is hidden behind the " Parson and
Clerk." Yet you can see Exmouth distinctly, and even a
bit of the little watering place of Budleigh Salterton. The
blue of the sea, the red of the cliffs, the green of the grass
and foliage, make up a feast of colour that I do not believe
can be equalled north of the Mediterranean. Nor is this
all — for along the cliffs between Babbacombe and Teign-
mouth stretches a line of cultivated undercliff, where a
patch of yellow corn climbing the ruddy slope lends its
tints to the already gorgeous landscape.
The village, or I suppose we must now call it town, of
Marychurch, Torquay's most important suburb, spreads
away over the high ground above Babbacombe beneath
the shadow of the tall tower of the church of St. Mary,
a very handsome building erected about forty years ago
on the site of an earlier structure of which little remains
but the old Norman font covered with grotesque carving
consisting of hunting scenes, a raven tearing the body of a
man, and " what appears to be a tumbler or ' joculator,'
such a figure as occurs in contemporary illuminations."
Some writers think this font Saxon, and as the church
is traditionally said to have been the oldest in Devon,
and is mentioned in Domesday Book, it is quite possible
that it may be so. The tower is a prominent landmark
for miles, and almost equally so is the graceful spire of the
Roman Catholic church.
From Walls Hill, or, as it is more commonly called,
Babbacombe Down, the path winds downwards among
some rather intricate stone walls to the strand, passing
a tiny pier. The cove proper is very small. For some
yards the foliage comes almost to the water's edge,
then the cliffs begin again. Here and there the path
is carried along a wooden platform, without which at
The Babbacombe Murder. 375
high water foot passengers would be unable to get
round the cliffs at all, so narrow is the strip of shingle
between cliff and sea.
Abutting on the beach are the grounds of the Glen,
which a few years ago was the scene of a horrible
murder. The butler, a man named Lee, murdered his
mistress, an unprotected maiden lady. The fellow was
arrested, tried, and sentenced to be executed. The
evidence upon which he was convicted was, it should
be remarked, purely circumstantial, for no one saw the
deed committed. And now happened a remarkable thing.
The gallows refused to perform their office — it is said that
the wood was warped — and the authorities, thinking that as
the unhappy man had already tasted the bitterness of
death it would be cruelty to persist, granted a reprieve, and
commuted his sentence to that of penal servitude for life.
There are not wanting those who look upon him as an
injured man, and regard the jamming of the gallows as a
Divine interposition in his favour. Nor is this altogether
to be wondered at. On the morning appointed for his
execution Lee told the warder that he had dreamed that,
though three attempts would be made to hang him, neither
would succeed. The warder reported the matter to the
governor, but he, of course, had no power, even if he had
had the inclination, to stay the sentence. What makes
the whole affair more strange is that the text for the day
in the pocket-book which the governor habitually carried
was, " Surely it is the hand of the Lord which has done
this."*
The house in which the foul deed was done has been
pulled down. Only strong-minded people care to live in a
house that has been the scene of a midnight murder. " It
stood empty for years," said a boatman to me. "At last the
* I take the latter part of this story from Evelyn Burnaby's " Ride from
Land's End to John o' Groat's."
376 Petit Tor. — Watcombe.
owner decided to pull it down ; but, just as he had got the
roof off, a gentleman from London offered to take it. But
it was too late."
The upper part of Babbacombe, adjoining Marychurch,
is of the usual speculative builder type. There is nothing
interesting about it and very little that is beautiful, if we
except All Saints' Church, one of Butter-field's gems, rich
with local marbles.
At Oddicombe Sands there is excellent bathing, for the
white quartzose pebbles are too small and round to bruise
the feet, and the water is clear as crystal. Mr. Thomas is
again to the fore with refreshments, and an announcement —
this time couched in prose — that he is under the patronage
of Royalty. At the extreme end of the " Sands " a path
winds up the broken red cliff among thorns and gorse to
Petit Tor, a tall crag of grey marble scarred by quarries.
On the northern side a deep hollow descends abruptly to
the sea. Red boulders that have fallen from the cliff above
rise from the fern and brambles, and on the shore is the
spiral rock of sandstone known as Lot's Wife.
We shall now leave the cliffs for awhile and take the
high road to Teignmouth. It is possible, by following
a rough path a little further on, to walk through the
under-cliff, but this entails hard work, and the pleasure is
scarcely commensurate with the toil. So we get into
the lane leading to the Watcombe Terra Cotta Works,
where is made the pretty red clay pottery of which the
Torquay china shops are so full. The clay is so fine
and malleable that it can be manipulated into ornaments
of the most fragile nature. The combe is a picturesque
landslip among the cliffs, one of several along this piece
of coast.
This Teignmouth road runs parallel with and close to the
coast. Only occasional glimpses, however, can be had of it,
as there is generally higher ground between highway and
Teignmouth. 377
sea. At one place we look down Maidencombe, a " little
dell and cove " green and wooded ; at another, not far from
Teignmouth, where a turn in the road brings it nearly to
the edge of the cliff, we are above Labrador, where on
another bit of landslip or undercliff has been built a small
hotel surrounded by a fruit garden, a favourite resort of the
inhabitants of Teignmouth.
The view inland from this road is very beautiful. Mile
after mile rich valleys roll away westward, the red soil
imparting a warmth of colouring that no other tint can
give, and far away, almost as softly blue as the sky against
which they stand, the rugged heights of Dartmoor bound
the horizon — Rippon Tor, Saddle Tor, and Hey Tor, the
last with its two great bosses of granite visible from almost
any cliff between Berry Head and Branscombe.
And now round a bend in the road Teignmouth comes
into view, the sandy horn on which the lower part of the
town is built seemingly nearly blocking the outlet of the
river. There is a good bird's-eye view of the whole town,
and especially of the more aristocratic portion — the villas
and terraces set on the green and wooded slopes that
stretch upward to the semi-moorland range of Little
Haldon. The village to the left of the town with the ivied
church tower is Bishop's Teignton, a place gaining some
little repute as a health resort. Below us the road winds
downward to Shaldon, a pleasant old-fashioned village along
the water side. Shaldon is connected with Teignmouth by
a very long bridge, mostly of wood. Whether it is, as the
people boast, the longest bridge in England, I cannot say ;
but it is 1672 feet in length, and that is quite long enough
on a windy day at any rate. At one time it is said to have
been the longest but one in Europe- — next to the Pont de
Lyons, and that is only thirty feet longer. For anything I
know, it may still be the longest road bridge in the kingdom,
though of course there are several railway bridges of
378 Teignmouth.
greater length (those spanning the Forth and Tay, for
example), not to speak of one in this very county — Brunei's
great masterpiece across the Tamar.
Over this bridge must go all vehicles bound from Torquay
to Teignmouth. But we are not " carriage folk," but
humble pedestrians, and may save a mile by dropping
down a lane to the strand just opposite the sandbank,
where there are half a dozen boatmen ready and willing
to compete for the honour of ferrying us across for the
modest sum of one penny. For it is not an easy pull
always. At low tide, for instance — or, indeed, at any time
when the current is strong — it requires some vigour to make
headway. For the Teign is a swift river, and the narrowing
of its mouth makes it swifter. I have steered a boat across
myself, and found it difficult enough to bring up at a certain
mark on the further shore.
The worst of most estuaries is that when the salt water
has gone seawards they are full of sandbanks — too often of
mud. The Teign is no exception, and at low tide there are
acres and acres left bare. Fortunately, however, the mud is
en evidence but little — indeed, this is the charm of most of
the Devonshire rivers. They come down clear from their
moorland cradles, and, with but one or two exceptions,
are not — from an artistic point of view — cursed by the
presence on their banks of filth-discharging factories.
Still, it must be confessed that they look better when the
tide is full, and this is particularly the case with such
wide estuaries as those of the Exe and Teign — the two
widest in Devonshire. And of these two, I prefer the
Teign, for the hills come down nearer to the water, and
there is none of that level ground lying between the high
land and the river which is characteristic of the right bank
of the Exe. And what beautiful hills they are ! Whether
the eye rests on the rich green slopes of Ringmoor and
Combe-in-Teignhead, or upon the blue tors that seem to
The Den. 379
look down — though they are far away — on the head of
the estuary, there is the same feeling of restful enjoyment.
Every inch is cultivated, every slope parcelled out into
fields. At one spot, indeed, above Shaldon some loyalist
has divided his piece of ground into a representation
of the Union Jack. This singular piece of work, probably
the idea of some old skipper living close at hand, is very
conspicuous from the Great Western Railway, which skirts
the northern shore of the estuary.
I think we all owe a deep debt of gratitude to Brunei
for this picturesque bit of line. Not only are the beauties
of the Teign to be enjoyed otium cum dignitate, but those
of the Exe as well, while the line between the two estuaries
is audaciously made to skirt the very edge of the sea,
opening up the most delightful vistas of red cliff, isolated
crag, and distant coast line. Whether, however, the com-
pany feels quite so grateful is another matter. I fancy that
since the great landslip of 1853, when 4000 tons of cliff
swept the railway into the sea, a good bit of money must
have been spent in repairing the sea wall, massive though it
be. But, as I am not a shareholder, no such arriere pensee
comes to trouble my enjoyment, and the great genius has
my warmest thanks.
******
The boatman lands us, and we make our way up the
shingle to the granite lighthouse that stands at the end of
the Den. This Den has no connection with wild animals —
other than those of the genus "'Arry," by wrhich on
excursion days it is much affected ; it is the promenade of
the human species. I expect the name is a contraction of
Dene, which, again, is a corruption of Dune, for the Den is
nothing more or less than a long sandbank, which the good
taste of Teignmouth has converted into a lawn gay with
flowerbeds. From the middle projects an iron pier, where,
when they have tired of the promenade, the inhabitants of
380 Teignmouth.
Teignmouth may parade themselves, or thence embark on
one of the many pleasure boats that cluster about the head
of the same. For Teignmouth in its way is a lively town,
and, although lacking the genteel manners of Dawlish and
the patrician air of Torquay, is not at all the sort of place
where the holiday maker will find it difficult "to spend a
happy day."
At the back of the Den, on the low ground, is the older
part of the town, known as West Teignmouth. Here, inside
the curve hollowed out by the river current, many a vessel
lies at anchor — good old wooden ships, for the ugly iron
collier," wallsided" and towering twenty feet out of the water,
cannot negotiate the bar outside. As a consequence there
is more of the picturesque about the shipping of Teign-
mouth than about that of other and more important seaports.
One sees the heavy coasting smack with sails tanned red,
brown, or ochre, perhaps bringing coals round from the
Forest of Dean or from Wales ; the more graceful schooner
which ships the china clay from further up the river, while
the brigantines and one or two old-fashioned brigs speak to
the salt fish trade with Newfoundland. These on a calm
summer evening, their reflections quivering in the water, and
with the sun getting low over the tall fir-crowned cliff of the
Ness, make up a very pleasant picture indeed.
The division of the town into east and west is a division
only in name — an easier way, perhaps, of denoting the two
parishes of Teignmouth Regis and Teignmouth Episcopi. It
is an old town, as may be seen by its narrow streets, though
few ancient houses now survive. Here the Danes are
said to have landed in 970,* and committed great slaughter.
* Dr. Bellamy says that they landed in 800, and adds : "This is the first
notice of these people" The " first notice" in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
refers to a descent on the Dorset coast in 787, and states plainly '• These
were the first ships of Danishmen which sought the land of the English
nation." Neither the descent of 800 or of 970 is mentioned by the
Chronicle, though the omission, of course, proves nothing.
History of Teignmouth. 381
The legend says that one Cuthbert of Bradlea managed to
possess himself of the enemy's standard, the magic
"Raven." His wife Ella, knowing something of its
attributes, persuaded him to consult the wise man Osric.
Osric declared that " if the dark bird lay still on the
crimson folds of the standard, the Dane would never
again set foot in England ; but if it took flight, the
evil day was still in store." Hardly had they turned
away when the figure upon the standard became instinct
with life, rose, and soared away.*
In common with Plymouth and Dartmouth, Teignmouth
suffered greatly from descents of the French. They burnt
it in 1347. In 1690, when the Court of St. Germain was
attempting to bolster up the cause of a fallen king, they
attacked it again. Admiral Tourville with a fleet of seventy-
eight sail having defeated Lord Torrington, who had but
fifty-six ships, off Beachy Head, thought it a favourable
opportunity for further vengeance. He accordingly bore
down upon Teignmouth, burnt it and part of Shaldon as
well, and returned in triumph to Brest. In Cooke's " Topo-
graphical Survey of the County of Devon" — a little book
published very early in the century — we are informed that
this disaster occurred in the reign of Queen Anne ! and,
with more accuracy, that the inhabitants by means of a
brief were soon after enabled to rebuild one of the
streets, which they called French-street, in memory of the
calamity.
Having regard to the existing churches at Teignmouth,
the remarks made by this writer are instructive. He says
that East Teignmouth Church has — save the mark ! — " a
venerable appearance, and dates from a period not long
after the Norman Conquest." It has anything but a
venerable appearance now, because, as Walcott says, the
" Norman windows and massive central tower were
* Walcott, p. 431.
382 The Coast Railway.
disgracefully altered in 1831.'^ Fortunately the south door
was spared, and this is now about the only remnant of
any particular style in the church. Even that, however,
has been so " restored " that it looks almost as new as the
rest of the building, which exhibits a medley of nearly every
architectural style under the sun. There is, however, a
beautiful font of Devonshire marbles.
In Cooke's day the church of West Teignmouth was a
very ancient stone building with a roof " supported
in a singular manner by the ramifications of a wooden
pillar formed from the trunk of a single tree." The
church of to-day, erected in 1805, is an octagon, the
exterior covered with stucco, and altogether a marvel
of ugliness.
There are good firm sands extending from the mouth
of the Teign to the Parson and Clerk Rocks, midway
between Teignmouth and Dawlish. But these sands can
only be followed when the tide is out — at high water
we are again indebted to Brunei. For along the sea-
ward face of the railway wall he constructed a path or
promenade, by which we may walk almost to the Parson.
Here the railway plunges into a tunnel in the cliff, and we
must pass beneath the line where it is carried on arches
over a little cove and take a lane which leads up into the
high road running near the cliff top. This lane — there
was once a cave at the foot, but the railway has destroyed
it — is known as Smugglers' Lane, and if the red banks had
tongues they could doubtless tell of many a midnight party
passing inland with kegs of French brandy or bales of
tobacco, neither of which lost anything in flavour for not
having paid duty. It is a green, shady spot notwithstanding
its civilisation and confinement between tarred palings and
the walls of villa gardens above. Here, as in many other
of the hedges between Haldon and the sea, will be found
the pink madder growing wild.
The Parson and Clerk. 383
They are a strange-looking couple, the Parson and his
Clerk. The former leans against the headland, to which
his shoulders are, as it were, attached, forming a natural
archway through which the tide dyed red by his shadow
ebbs and flows. Outside, completely surrounded by the
water, stands the Clerk, a tall pinnacle. He is more vener-
able looking than his superior, for he is a favourite perch for
the gulls, and his head is quite white. Neither, however,
bear much resemblance to the characters they are supposed
to represent. As for the Parson, his figure is more that of
a woman than a man.
Their story I have told already.* All I can repeat here
is that they suddenly appeared after a dreadful storm in
which, for their iniquities — though I never could see that
the clerk was much to blame — a parson and his clerk were
drowned.
There are beautiful views along the road to Dawlish,
especially from Lee Mount, where, after a mile or so of
dusty high road, we again take to the cliffs. This is a
favourite resort of the Dawlish people, and once more
there is a wide panorama of the bay, stretching backwards
to Hope's Nose and forwards to Beer Head and — if the
day be clear enough — Portland. As we rest upon one of
the seats among the trees that crest this eminence, and let
the eye roam over the fertile and populous country at our
feet, the contrast between this scenery and that of the
savage coast about Bolt Head cannot fail to strike us. It
is difficult to believe that we are in the same county and
looking upon the same sea.
Dawlish lies in a shallow valley on either side of green
lawns. A little brook, the Dawlish Water — a brook that
swarms with trout — flows down the middle, passing to the
sea beneath the low Egyptian viaduct which carries the
railway along the sea front. It is a clean, pretty little
* See " The Rivers of Devon."
384 Dawltsh.
town, with nothing ugly about it but the railway, and even
that has been constructed so as to offend the eye as little
as possible. Most of what we see from the beach, or,
rather, railway, is modern — the old village lies further up
the valley.
Close to the railway station is a tower* crowned with a
cupola — a relic of the days of Brunei. His idea at first
was to wrork the trains by atmospheric pressure, and an
engine house was erected of which this tower was the
chimney. But the experiment was a failure. Another
engine house may be seen at Starcross, the next station
towards Exeter, but the tower is not so graceful. Dawlish
Church stands on the left bank of the brook some way up
the valley. The situation is pleasant. Meadow's and
orchards lie about it ; woods fill the head of the valley
beyond. It is not very interesting from an antiquarian
point of view as most of it has been rebuilt. But it is a
well-looking church with a good Perpendicular tower and
lofty nave, while the Early English chancel and transepts
are wide and airy, and the east window is undoubtedly fine.
It is a pity that a great part of the exterior should be
disfigured with stucco. There are no monuments of par-
ticular interest, but in an angle of the wall outside the east
end stand the base and part of the shaft of an ancient cross.
In the south-west corner of the churchyard is an area
inclosed by a wall pierced by an arcade of elegant Early
English arches divided by double columns of red sandstone.
This is the burial place of Luscombe, the seat of the
Hoares.
The origin and meaning of the name Dawlish has
provoked no little discussion. About the name there is,
however, no doubt ; it was Doftisc, by wrhich name Bishop
Leofric gave the manor to the cathedral of Exeter, and, as
Murray says, it belonged to the chapter till early in the
* Now removed.
Demolish. 385
present century, when it was sold to redeem the land
tax. But what Doflisc meant is another question. Old
Polwhele, who is nothing if not picturesque, makes it to
signify " a fruitful mead by the river side," unless I am
mistaken, and certainly his interpretation fits this sunny
valley to a nicety.
Next to Paignton, Dawlish has the best bathing beach in
South Devon. In fact, it was the beach which brought the
town. Even a hundred years ago its praises were sung by
a certain Dr. Downman, who, after indulging in the usual
rhapsodies at that time so fashionable, continues thus :
To thee will 1 consign
Often the timid virgin, to thy pure
Incircling waves ; to thee will I consign
The feeble matron ; or the child on whom
Thou mayst bestow a second happier birth
From weakness unto strength.
But we must leave his "lovely strand," "towering cliffs,"
and "bubbling brook" behind, and continue our walk to
the north-east, where the terraces of Exmouth look down
upon the meeting of Exe with the sea. The railway walk
extends to Langstone Point, through which the line cuts
before turning inland to follow the estuary to Starcross and
Exeter. Here the cliffs end, and the wayfarer has the
choice of two routes to Exmouth. The first and nearest
is across the sandy waste of the Warren, a bank cast up by
the sea and projecting, after the fashion of the Den at
Teignmouth, into the outlet of the river. The second is
by the steamboat from Starcross,* a good two miles and a
half up the estuary. If you are going by the railway,
you will, of course, make use of the latter route ; but for
pedestrians the way across the Warren is preferable
notwithstanding that the sand makes the walking at times
difficult.
* Said by some to owe its name to a cross that once stood beside the
landing place ; by others to be simply the stairs for crossing the river.
c c
386 The Warren.
It is a long, desolate piece of waste, this warren, and I
recommend no one who is a stranger to attempt to cross it
after dark. For at high water parts of it are covered by
the sea, which leaves as it retires pools and slimy streams
that are unpleasant if not absolutely dangerous to encounter.
Most of it is covered with grass or rushes. Except as
a rifle range, it is apparently of little use. At one time an
attempt was made to lay down oyster beds at the broad
end near the " Bight," the name given to that part of the
estuary that lies, a calm sheet of water, along the inner
slope; But I do not think the projectors of this enterprise
ever made much of it, and I fancy the most valuable
product of the Warren nowadays is the rabbit.
The Exe estuary is the widest in Devonshire — at Star-
cross more than a mile across And it is one of the'
shallowest. Even at high water vessels must stick close to
the channel of the river ; if they do not, they will infallibly
"take the ground" on one of the numerous sandbanks.
At one time the tide flowed as far as Exeter, and ships
sailed right up to the " faithful city," as it loves to call
itself ; but, owing to a quarrel between the civic authorities
and the family of the Earl of Devon,* the channel was
obstructed, and navigation, so far as the river is concerned,
ends at Turf just above, though on the opposite side to the
little waterside town of Topsham. From this point vessels
reach Exeter by canal.
The surroundings of this broad sheet of water — for it is
more like a lake than a river — are very soft and pleasant.
On the one hand is the green expanse of undulating
country that lies between the river and the dark line of
Haldon, of which the most noticeable features are the white
houses of Starcross and the grey castle of Powderham, for
centuries the seat of the Earls of Devon, set in the midst of
its oak-studded park. On the eastern shore the low green
* " Rivers of Devon."
Exmouth. 387
hills form a background to the village of Lympston and
further up to the houses of Topsham, a sleepy place which
once knew better days. Straight ahead is Exmouth, its
terraces rising one above the other, and the tall tower of its
church commanding land and sea for miles.
C C 2
CHAPTER XXVI.
FROM EXMOUTH TO SIDMOUTH.
Exmouth — Littleham — West Down Beacon — Woodbury Castle — Hayes
Barton, and Sir Walter Raleigh — The Introduction of Tobacco — Budleigh
Salterton — The River Otter — Ladram Bay — High Peak — Sidmouth — A
Ridiculous River.
Hills and valleys where April rallies his radiant squadrons of flowers and birds,
Steep strange beaches and lustrous reaches of fluctuant sea 4that the land engirds,
Fields and downs that the sunrise crowns with life diviner than lives in words.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
" THE town looks very hard at the river, the houses all
staring over one another's shoulders, as if they had flocked
together from inland and saw something very interesting on
the opposite bank, or at least felt much concerned to see
how Starcross — a young rival watering place on the other
side — was getting on."
Such is a serio-comic but nevertheless very accurate
description of the appearance from a distance of the town
at the mouth of the Exe. There is a curious air of wide-
awakedness about Exmouth. There is nothing retiring
about it ; it looks as if nothing could come within range of
its window batteries without being severely criticised. It
is bolt upright, uncompromising, self-confident, and the
serried rows of houses bask in the hot sun with a defiant
scorch-me-if-you-can air that makes one long for the shady
avenues of Torquay.
As a watering place it has, like Dawlish and other
neighbours, sprung into existence almost within the
present century. I have read somewhere that it owes its
Exmouth. 389
reputation to the dictum of a judge, whose health so
improved during his visit that he sung its praises far and
wide. So it has grown from a mere fishing village into a
town of 6000 inhabitants. Nor is it purely a watering place.
There are docks hard by where the ferryman lands us — not
very extensive, it is true, but still sheltering a ship or two.
In days of yore, before the bar outside the river mouth had
silted up, it must have had a fair trade. But it is best known
as a health resort, and the many villas that have sprung up
on the hill above the town testify to its growing popularity.
And it is not unknown to history. Sweyn landed his
Danes here in 1001, "and there," as the chronicler says,
" continued fighting stoutly ; but they were very strenuously
resisted." The resistance, however, seems to have been
of no effect. " Then went they through the land, and did
all as was their wont ; destroyed and burnt . . . and
their last incursion was even worse than the one before."*
The invaders seem to have come from the Teign, where
they burnt Teignton, probably Bishop's Teignton, or
perhaps King's Teignton. For the next six centuries the
lot of the port seems to have been peaceful. But it could
not but be embroiled in the Civil War. The fort of sixteen
guns garrisoned for the King was compelled to surrrender
to the Parliamentary troops under Sir Hardresse Waller.
This fort stood upon the Warren, the channel of the Exe
at that time being much nearer Starcross than now — in
fact, to the westward of the fort.
The town of Exmouth is not very interesting, but the
suburbs, which spread over the hills at the back, are
pleasant enough. The Beacon, a hill commanding
extensive views over land, river, and sea, is deservedly
popular. Hence you may see the best part of the estuary,
the woods and castle of Powderham, the villas of Star-
cross, and the rich undulating tract of country that lies
* Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.
39° Exmouth.
at the foot of Haldon, which rises, a long dark line
of moorland, in striking contrast to the emerald pastures
below. From another point you may look across the
river's mouth along the sandy waste of the Warren to
the red cliffs of Dawlish and Teignmouth until the view
is closed by Berry Head. Eastward, there is no view
except along the Strand, a drive following the curve of
the shore for about a mile to a battery, whence, as the
coast line turns for awhile to the north, the rising ground
shuts out further view.
The cliffs do not recommence till Exmouth has been left
behind for nearly two miles, and the walk along the shore
to Straight Point, where they first attain any elevation, is
fatiguing. Most pedestrians bound eastward will eschew it
as much as they do the terribly dusty high road, and take to
the lane which leads to the village of Littleham, lying
between the said road and the sea. A third way is by
water, and perhaps, if the traveller is geologically inclined,
this way is the best ; for he can study the red walls all the
time, and land at whatever point he likes.
And it is easy enough, too. Boats of all shapes and sizes
are plentiful, not only at Exmouth, but at all the towns and
villages fringing this coast, and an ancient mariner is
always at hand ready and willing — sometimes too willing
— to impart his store of legend and tradition concerning
the spots you sail past so merrily. And then for the mere
pleasure seeker there is the Exmouth steamer (much girded
at by the tradespeople " because," as one of them told me,
" she takes visitors away during the day, and brings them
back after the shops are closed "), a swift and well-found
craft sailing almost daily during the summer months along
this favoured shore. For those who have no fear of that
Curious up and down motion
That comes from the treacherous ocean,
or the wamble in the inner man, to which an old Devonshire
Littleham. 391
writer* was not ashamed to confess, a seat on her bridge is
perhaps more comfortable than the thwarts of a boat. Still,
if you go by water you see little or nothing of the country
inland, and, believe me, some of it is well worth seeing.
We, then, will let the geologist depart in his boat, and the
excursionist embark on the Duchess, and take the lane to
Littleham.
As a village Littleham is rather disappointing. It is
one of those places that affords wonderful " bits " for the
photographer, and I am sure that anyone seeing some of
the views in the Exmouth shop windows would expect
something quite idyllic. I have one before me now
representing a group of picturesque thatched cottages
with walls of whitewashed " cob " bordering a stream
in which are reflected a line of elms. But alas ! when
you get to the spot " a change comes o'er the spirit of
your dream." And yet everything is there — cottages,
stream, elms — everything. But the cottages do not look
nearly so picturesque as the photograph makes them,
and the stream — alas ! for the stream. It is a muddy
ditch full of broken crocks and other " unconsidered
trifles " from the cottages. Yet the village is pretty
notwithstanding ; I only warn the public not to put too
much faith in bits photographic.
And Littleham has an interesting church with a
Decorated chancel, divided from the nave by a fine
oak screen. In the churchyard lie the remains of the
wife of the great Lord Nelson, and, strange as it may
seem, the monument is in anything but well-preserved
condition. Littleham is one of the parish churches of
Exmouth, the other being that of Withycombe Raleigh.
Both are a long way from the town, nearly three miles
— so the inhabitants ought to be grateful to the late
Lord Rolle for giving them their chapel-of-ease, the
* Westcote.
392 Woodbury Castle.
tall tower of which is so conspicuous an object from
the opposite shore of the estuary. As for the old
parish church of Withycombe Raleigh, known by the
fanciful name of St. John in the Wilderness — it is
really dedicated to St. Michael — it is an ivy-covered
ruin.
Beyond Littleham a footpath leads up to West Down
Beacon, a lofty cliff looking down upon Budleigh Salterton.
The common at the top is covered with heather, the first
we have seen since leaving Plymouth, and the paths are
strewn with flints, showing that we have reached a
geological formation not wholly consisting of sandstone.
But the cliffs are as red as ever, and there is a long
stretch of them in both directions, the lighter tinted
coast of Dorset forming a contrast, and reminding us
of those lines in the " Ingoldsby Legends" :
It really seems queer that this Devonshire coast,
While neighbouring Dorset gleams white as a ghost,
Should look like anchovy spread upon toast.
Inland the valleys are as green and fertile as ever, but
the loftier hills are, like the Beacon, barren and covered
with heather. On one of them, about four miles distant, is
Woodbury Castle, a large British earthwork or camp. The
original shape of the " castle " was oval, but it has been
altered by the addition of outworks. There is a tradition
that it was once occupied by the Romans. The Romans,
however, do not appear to have thrown up these out-
works. Murray states that there is a supposition that they
were thrown up during the Devonshire rebellion in the reign
of Edward the Fourth, " when Lord Russell defeated the
insurgents near this place." What is certain is that the
camp was occupied by artillery for five years — from 1798 to
1803 — the period when the inhabitants of the South Coast
lived in continual dread of a descent by the " little
Corsican."
Sir W. Raleigh. — Hayes Barton. 393
Out among these hills, too, but nearer than Woodbury
Castle, is the old church of St. John in the Wilderness,
once, as I have said, the parish church of Withycombe
Raleigh. On the eastern side of the hills we can almost
see the home of the family from which the village took its
name — the farm of Hayes Barton. The house is low, with
gabled roof covered with thatch, and beneath the deep
porch is a massive door, studded with iron nails. In the
room to the left above the porch Sir Walter is said to have
been born. Probably the house has altered little since the
days when he lived there, more than three centuries ago.
A mile to the right — I almost think that is the tower among
those elms — is East Budleigh Church, where he worshipped
as a boy, and there you will find the family pew, with the date
1537 and the Raleigh arms carved on the oak panel. And
in the nave is the grave of his wife Joan, the inscription
reading oddly from right to left. By her side, if the gossips
may be believed, lies the hero's head — the head of the man
who fell a victim to Spanish intrigue and the fears of an
avaricious and pusillanimous king.
A writer in the Cornhill has a pleasant reference to
Hayes Barton. " Its projecting porch and heavily thatched
gables have," he says, " an old-world look about them ; but
on the whole it takes its fame as a matter of course, and
makes no great pretensions to be anything more than an
Elizabethan country house. The hills rise above it at the
back, stacks close in around it, you hear the cows lowing
from the ' linneys,' the garden is full of old-fashioned
flowers, and a genial atmosphere of peace hangs over it.
The general features of the place must have changed very
little since Sir Walter rambled about the quiet woodland
ways which hem it in. Here he cherished boundless
dreams of El Dorado, galleons, and ingots. Hayes Wood
in front and the hills behind must often have seen him, like
another Alexander, chafing at the narrow horizon of his
394 Introduction of Tobacco.
world. . . . How often must he have turned in fancy to
this little homestead when fainting under a tropical sun or
chafing as a prisoner in the Tower ! The mind, they say,
often revisits early scenes in the moment of death.
Raleigh may have seemed to hear the sheep bleat and
called up in fancy the well-remembered outline of Hayes
Farm against yonder green hillside as he closed his eyes
and laid his head on the block."
From grave to gay. Sir Walter Raleigh is usually
credited with the introduction into England of tobacco.
But, according to a local legend, he was not the first who
brought the fragrant weed to this country. Tobacco
became known in this way : Two gentlemen of these parts,
Sir Roger Walingham of Withycombe and Sir Hugh de
Creveldt of Littleham had quarrelled about certain rights
of fishing and fowling and the division of the plunder from
the wreck of a Genoese galliot. Sir Hugh wished his
enemy dead, and even while indulging in the wicked
thought Sir Roger sickened and died. Whether the
malefic thoughts of Sir Hugh had hastened his departure or
not, the story does not say; but what it does say is that Sir
Roger began to haunt Sir Hugh to such purpose that he in
his turn began to sicken. Opposite him at his meals, by
his side in the ingle nook, about his couch at night, Sir
Hugh saw, or thought he saw, the ghost of the defunct
knight of Withycombe. But a remedy was coming. One
day a sea captain from the Spanish Main presented him
with a pipe and a twist of brown leaf, and to the latter set
a light. Sir Hugh puffed and felt better ; then he puffed
again and forgot all about the spirit. In fact, the spectre was
exorcised. He could not stand tobacco smoke. For
spectres, be it known, " breathe only pure oxygen without
azote ; it is only we mortals who are ' compelled to inhale
the mixed elements.'" So Sir Hugh recovered, and,
delighted with the wonderful drug — as he well might be —
Budleigh Pebbles. 395
introduced it to Raleigh's father, to whom also he left the
pipe, and from him it " descended to the great Sir Walter,
who, as this legend runs, planned his expedition to Virginia
on purpose to fill it." *
As we descend the cliff pathway to Budleigh Salterton,
the Duchess is nearing the shore. Surely she will stop
presently, for there is no pier, and the passengers must land
in boats. But nothing of the kind. She steams straight
for the beach, only stopping as her bow touches the pebbles.
Then a long stage is run out, down which the passengers
troop to the shore. It is an original way of disembarking,
and looks not a little dangerous. But the fact is the beach
slopes so rapidly that there is no danger of grounding, and,
except in rough weather, the steamer can take no harm.
It need scarcely be said that the feat is only attempted
when the water is quite smooth.
The pebbles of this beach have something of a local
reputation. Many of them are very beautifully coloured, a
malachite blue and amber-like brown being the richest
tints. When dry they attract little notice, but moisture at
once brings out their latent beauty, and, when held against
the sun, some of them appear almost transparent. Good
specimens take a high polish, and make handsome brooches
and other ornaments. They are plentiful at many spots
between Budleigh Salterton and Sidmouth — I have picked
up some particularly fine specimens in Ladram Bay. Those
at Budleigh Salterton have fallen from a bed in the cliffs.
They are quartzite, and, though some are Devonian, many
are Silurian. These latter have attracted much attention
from geologists, and both Mr. W. Vicary, F.G.S., and Mr.
Pengelly, well-known local geologists, have had their say
on the matter. It seems that there are none of like
character nearer than Cornwall or France, and it is
suggested that the appearance of these Silurian pebbles is
* Mrs. Whitcombe.
396 Budleigh Salterton.
due to a " pre-Triassic extension of the Silurian rocks of
Calvados and La Manche."
Half hidden in myrtle and hydrangea, the villas of
Budleigh Salterton cover the bottom and slopes of a valley
that inclines gently to the shore. There is only one street
worth noticing — that which fills the bottom — and along its
side rattles a little brook, crossed by innumerable " rustic "
bridges. There are no trains, and consequently few
excursionists. The place is cheerful and sunny, and the
inhabitants appear to take life with a pleasant philosophy.
There is neither bustle nor noise. Such is Budleigh
Salterton.
The little town — it is but a little one, only one-third the
size of Exmouth — is the growth of recent years. Formerly a
tiny fishing hamlet, far smaller than the neighbouring villages,
it owes its increase to the light and buoyant air, which,
without being bracing, is far less enervating than the atmo-
sphere of Torquay or Dawlish, and to many its quietude
is an attraction. The railway comes no nearer than
Exmouth, and the e very-day "tripper" thinks twice before
paying for a bus ride of the best part of an hour. And the
neighbourhood has charms of its own, particularly the green
strath of the Otter — that little river winding to the sea under
the low red bluff at the eastern horn of the bay. I have
lively recollections of an evening walk along the river bank
to Otterton, through level meadows dotted with sheep and
cattle and musical with the voice of the swift river flowing
beneath the steep park that rises abruptly from its very
brink. Like the cliff, the bank is deep red, and the effect of
the reflection upon the river was curious. As the declining
sun cast its rays upon the water, these reflections became so
brilliant that, had it not been possible to see the gravel of
the river bed, one would almost have taken the water to be
tinged with blood. This is no exaggeration — I have met
with others who have noticed the same effect.
The Otter. 397
To the poet this river is, or ought to be, almost sacred, for
on its banks is the birthplace of Coleridge, and the Otter is
the
Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy
Stared wildly eager in her noontide dream !
The poet's home was at Ottery St. Mary, some ten miles
up the river ; but the following lines descriptive of his
recollections might apply almost as well to these the lower
waters of the stream as to the upper :
Mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise —
The crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that veined with various dyes
Gleam'd thro' thy bright transparence.
In the Middle Ages the mouth of the Otter was a much
larger affair than is the case to-day. " Less than an
hunderith yeres sins," writes Leland, " shippes usid this
haven, but it is now clean barred." A hundred years before
Leland's time would be somewhere between the middle
and end of the fifteenth century — say four hundred years
ago. It was then known as Budleigh Haven — being so
called, not, as might be expected, after Budleigh Salterton,
but after East Budleigh, or, as Leland calls it, " Budleigh
town." " In those days this village was a small market
town," and, apparently, reached by the tide — now far
away — for it is described as "on the west side of the
haven, right almost against Otterton." It is not, however,
on the Otter, but on a small tributary up which the tide
may, quite possibly, have flowed, before the pebble bank
at Budleigh Salterton dammed the passage.
The mouth of the Otter, such as it is — a gateway
hemmed in by pebbles — lies about a mile from the centre
of Budleigh Salterton. An esplanade bordering the pebbles
runs most of the way ; then we strike inland and walk for
another mile along the river bank to the footbridge that
398 Ladram Bay.
spans the clear shallow stream almost within sight of the
red cliffs that look down on its outlet through the pebbles.
These cliffs, although here of no great height, have a broken,
picturesque outline, and in many places are honeycombed
with caves. In less than three miles Ladram Bay is reached,
a deep indentation fringed with a beach of firm sand, which
again is bordered immediately beneath the cliffs by a ridge
of pebbles, many of very rich tints. The caves and the
beach are the means of attracting many picnic parties to
Ladram Bay. It is the only sandy beach for a long
distance, and a woman at the cottage close by told me
that hundreds visit it in summer-time merely for the
bathing, some of them actually walking all the way from
Budleigh Salterton !
And this beach was the saving of many lives some forty-
five years ago, when in a terrific gale an Italian barque
went ashore beneath the rugged red cliffs.
" Eh, it was a fearful gale," said a spectator to me, "and,
as we battled along the cliffs, many and many a time had
we to throw ourselves on the ground and clutch at the
grass to prevent ourselves from being blown away
altogether." Of course the ship had no chance. For
more than twenty-four hours she had been trying to get
out of the West Bay, but the wind was dead on shore.
At length the captain — worn out, poor fellow — decided to run
her ashore, and on the top of a tremendous sea the vessel
rushed at the beach. With a crash that rose even above the
tempest she struck, and almost immediately swung round
broadside to the seas. Now was their opportunity. Losing
not a moment, the crew lowered a boat into the compara-
tively smooth water formed by the shelter of the straining
hull and reached the beach in safety.
At either end of the bay, like sentinels, stand two columns
of red sandstone, by the persistent gnawing of the waves
eaten away from the cliffs adjacent.
High Peak. 399
Two twin cliffs from land exiled
Stand amid the tumult wild
On either side the narrow bay,
Alike in bulk and height are they :
With quaint visage peer they out
On the sullen waves, which pout
At their feet or make wild bounds
Up their sides like leaping hounds.
Another testimony to the power of the waves will be
found in the cliff at the eastern end of the bay. This has
been eaten through, forming an archway. Anywhere else
the beautiful colouring of red rock and clear green water
would excite remark ; but in this land of gorgeous hues the
eye becomes sated, and one only exclaims at some tit-bit of
special loveliness. Such a tit-bit is High Peak, the most
beautiful cliff in South Devon ; it is also the loftiest.
Scarce a hollow or fissure in its 511 feet but has a plant or
creeper, giving the great precipice an appearance of extra-
ordinary richness. Indeed, as a Devonshire writer declares,
though ''the beauty of outline is great, the High Peak is
even more indebted to its wonderful variety of colour —
colour that changes with every mood of the sky and
with every hour of the day. Half veiled with mist,
through which the sea birds float and wheel, sparkling
in sunlight or resting half in shadow, with the bluest
of seas stretching far away from its point, there is no
limit to its changeful ' shows/ and the eye is never tired
of watching them."
From Ladram Bay to the top of High Peak is a long,
hot pull, and we shall be willing enough to rest awhile and
enjoy the prospect over the great West Bay. As we look
eastward the most striking feature — it is very near now — is
the white cape of Beer Head, the most westerly outcrop of
chalk in England. Beyond it stretches a dim line of coast
ending in Portland Bill. In the other direction we can
trace our wanderings, with one or two intervals, right away
400 High Peak.
to Sharpham Point near Dartmouth. Sidmouth is, of course,
visible ; so are the upper houses of Budleigh Salterton.
Looking inland we have a bird's-eye view of the Vale of the
Otter with its villages — Otterton, East Budleigh, and Colla-
ton Raleigh. The mansion and church of Bicton are
also within view, with the park and gardens that are
celebrated throughout the South of England for the rare
and beautiful trees with which they abound. Behind
rise the dark heathery downs we saw from West Down
Beacon, over which, in clear weather, you may see the
tors of Dartmoor.
I am told that a careful search among the gorse and
heather which cover the top of this great precipice will
disclose the remains of an earthwork or " cliff castle,"
cast up in the days when Sidmouth was not, and when
marsh and forest filled the Vale of Otter. I cannot
say that I found much of it — perhaps I was too anxious
to avoid the prickles — still it is there, though most of
it has slipped into the sea long ago. At the eastern
end a deposit of charcoal is (or was) visible, "the
remains of ancient beacon or festival fires," and a layer
of animals' bones, relics of former feasts. Round pebbles
(perhaps sling stones), rude implements in flint and
bone, and coarse pottery with pieces of red haematite
have also been found.
High Peak has been claimed as the site of the Mori-
dunum mentioned in Antonine's " Itinerary." But it has
rivals in Hembury Fort, near Honiton, and Seaton.* All
that one can say is that its distance from Exeter and
Dorchester respectively corresponds fairly with that given
by the Roman writer. Still, I have never heard that a
Roman road passes nearer than Ottery St. Mary, nearly
equi-distant between High Peak and Hembury, or that
Roman remains have been discovered there, though of
* See sub Seaton.
SIDMOUTH.
Sidmouth. 401
course their absence is no infallible proof that the Romans
did not occupy the spot. Indeed, they have been found on
Sidmouth Beach, perhaps washed up when the ramparts slid
into the sea.*
You will have a bad five minutes descending through the
gorse — it is six feet high — on'the eastern side of the hill.
When that ends you come upon quite a grove of sloe
bushes, like the gorse growing to an unusual height. Then
there is a stile, and a better path leads over another lofty
cliff and down into Sidmouth.
To my mind, Sidmouth is the pleasantest of the smaller
watering places on this coast of Devon. Its prosperity is
now pretty well assured, but there was a time when it was
not in ignorance of the ups and downs of changeful fortune.
It was once quite an important seaport, for High Peak (and
perhaps Salcombe Hill as well) then projected much further
into the sea and formed a sheltered bay. And a large trade
in pilchards was carried on. But the cliffs fell back before
the attack of the sea, the pilchard — most fickle of fish — betook
himself further west, and Sidmouth languished. It was not
till the beginning of the present century that it began to
revive, when, owing to Royal and aristocratic patronage, it
became a highly popular and fast-growing watering place.
The Duke of Kent lived at the Glen, and with him the
Princess Victoria, now our Queen. Here, too, dwelt that
Mr. Boehm "at whose house in St. James'-square the Prince
Regent was attending a grand ball when the news of the
Waterloo victory was brought to him, and three of the
French eagles were laid at his feet in the midst of the
ball room by Henry Percy. f Mr. Boehm's house was after-
* Roman coins and a figure of Chiron the Centaur with his pupil Achilles
behind his back. Shortt regards it as probably having belonged to a cohort
of Carausius, and states that is was the device of the second legion.
(" Collectanea Curiosa Antiqua Dunmonia," p. 43.)
t R. J. King. " A Devonshire Watering Place." Standard, Aug. 22,
1874.
D D
402 Sidmouth.
wards occupied by Bacon, the sculptor, who wrote some
ridiculous lines expressive of the satisfaction he felt with
the charms of Sidmouth :
Mrs. Boehm wrote a poem
On the Sidmouth air ;
Mr. Boehm read the poem,
And built a cottage there.
Mr. Bacon all forsaken
Wandered to the spot ;
Mrs. Bacon he has taken
Partner of his lot.
As they longer live, the stronger
Their affection grows ;
Every season they with reason
Bless the spot they chose !
Sidmouth was known, too, to Thackeray, and is im-
mortalised as the Baymouth of " Pendennis." But the Duke
of Kent died ; the aristocratic prestige of Sidmouth began
to dwindle ; the railway, while pushing its way to Torquay
and other spots, " passed by on the other side," and
Sidmouth again declined. Now it is once more coming
into notice, for the railway has arrived, and, although it is
hardly yet a fashionable watering place, it is a very
attractive one, and — a great point in the rainy West — has
the least rainfall in Devonshire. There is no pier, and no
great length of esplanade, because the cliffs will not allow
it ; but the beauties of the valley down which the principal
street winds parallel with the sparkling Sid are in them-
selves sufficient to attract anyone not on fashion — i.e., the
display of fine plumage — bent. And about it and behind
it, and, indeed, everywhere except exactly in front of it,
rise the green hills, one of them — that called Sidbury —
crested with the ramparts of a fortress older even than
the ancient village with the little Norman church to
which it has given its name, and which lies almost beneath
its shadow.
But there was once a Sidmouth as old as, perhaps older
Sidmouth. 403
than, Sidbury. For Sidmouth, as it now stands, was not
the original settlement at the mouth of the Sid. No, the
soft sandstone has given way, as it still does, before the
encroaching waves, and the original Sidmouth now lies
below the shifting shingle. More than once has a storm
exposed the foundations of the dwellings of an early
race — a pre-historic people, of whom little or nothing is
known. We are told, even, that " early coins and relics
are so frequently washed up by the sea that it is a
common practice with the mudlarks of the place to
search for them after storms,"* though how there can
be mudlarks without mud, I do not quite see. Coins
and other relics are not, however, the only treasures
found by Sidmouth folk, for among the pebbles of the
beach are calcedonies, jasper, and agates, some of which
take a high polish.
Sidmouth is a mixture of old and new. Down in the
bottom, and at the end of the Esplanade, are the old houses
which were standing before
Mr. Boehm
Built a cottage there.
The modern villas lie upon the slopes, not in lines, but
dotted about with plenty of breathing room between,
and with thick shrubberies shutting in the gardens from
prying eyes. There is nothing very curious about the
town, but the church of St. Giles, rebuilt, with the
exception of the tower, is worth a visit. It has a hand-
some reredos, a pulpit of Devonshire marble, and many
coloured windows — that at the west end the gift of the
Queen in memory of her father.
At the end of the Esplanade the Sid comes downwards
to meet the sea. It is a river — or rather a rivulet — without
a mouth. The sea has been too much for it, and it
dribbles ignomimously through, or, rather, under, the
* Vide an old edition of Murray's Handbook.
D D 2
404 Sidmouth.
pebbles. When a freshet takes place, this bank of pebbles
is a serious inconvenience, as it ponds back the water,
which, flooding the meadows, enters the low-lying houses.
Then ensues a lively scene. Workmen hurry to the spot ;
the pebbles are dug away right and left, and with a rattle
the imprisoned river rushes into the sea. But this artificial
mouth lasts but a short time. The sea soon recommences
the building-up process, and, before the waters have well
subsided, the river disappears once more beneath the
shingle.
CHAPTER XXVII.
FROM SIDMOUTH TO SEATON.
Salcombe Hill — Salcombe Regis — Dunscombe — Weston Mouth — Petrifying
Springs — Branscombe — An Ill-kept Church — Beer Head — Beer — Beer
and the Armada — Lace-making — The Prince Consort's Wedding Lace.
HAVING crossed the river by the wooden footbridge that
spans the current close to where the mouth ought to be, but
is not, we shall find a footpath following the edge of the
cliff to the top of Salcombe Hill. The seaward face of
Salcombe Hill is but fourteen feet lower than High Peak; in
fact, these two cliffs may be called "the great twin brothers"
of Sidmouth. This Salcombe cliff is not so richly coloured as
its fellow further west, and there is less vegetation. But it is
more perpendicular, sinking nearly sheer to the beach, its
surface perfectly corrugated with the beds of the runnels
that after heavy rain pour down to the shore. Hereabouts,
too, the geological formation alters somewhat. The red
sandstone is no longer in its integrity, but has strata of
marl and yellow clay capped by greensand. It is from the
greensand that come the pebbles of the beach.
From Salcombe Hill a good view is to be had of the cliffs
to the eastward, a stately line glowing with many colours.
Near Beer Head the chalk begins to assert itself, ending at
last in a promontory that would be almost pure white were
it not for the patches of vegetation that cling to the snowy
wall. Here and there portions of cliff have subsided,
making an undercliff so warm and free from exposure to
the east wind that .almost anything will grow in its rents
406 Salcombe Regis.
and hollows. And man has not been slow to take advantage
of the situation. Little squares of potato climb the slopes
— potatoes that are dug almost as soon as those of Penzance
and Scilly — varied with barley and other cereals. Often, I
am told, two crops a year can be got out of these favoured
but strangely placed gardens. Well that it is so, for the
labour of cultivation must be immense.
There are three openings in this splendid wall of cliff—
Salcombe, Weston Mouth, and Branscombe. The first lies
at our feet — a green valley with steep sides, the bottom
paved with pasture land. At its head lies the village of
Salcombe Regis, and, as we begin to descend the narrow
sheep track running diagonally down the slope, we sight
the grey church tower rising boldly above the cottages
backed by an amphitheatre of green hills. The sheep
track ends in a cart road bordered with thickets ; the cart
track ends in a farmyard where dwells one of the noisiest
dogs in creation. Avoiding the attentions of this Cerberus,
we pass into a lane winding up to the village.
For two centuries at least the people of Salcombe Regis
have plumed themselves on the royal name of their village.
King's Salcombe, say they, because we were the last in
Devonshire to hold out for King Charles. How the idea
originated, I cannot certainly say ; but I think the vicar's
explanation must be the correct one. Salcombe Regis has
in some way become confounded with Salcombe town near
Kingsbridge, famous for its spirited defence under Sir
Edmund Fortescue.* So completely had the local fiction
become an accepted fact, that one writer — and a learned
writer, too — actually gives us chapter and verse, and
gravely informs us that "its fort (fancy this out-of-the-
way hamlet, commanding nothing, with a fort !) " was com-
pelled to surrender June, 1646," evidently mistaking the
village for the town. Even sober Murray forty odd years
* Vide Chapter XXI., ante.
Salcombe Regis. 407
ago fell into the same trap, though he has now made
amends by telling us that the regal part of the name dates
from a period long anterior to that of Charles, and is
traceable to the gift of the manor by Canute to Exeter, in
expiation for the ravages of his father, Sweyn. But even
this is hardly correct, for, in the reign of Canute, Crediton,
not Exeter, was the see. It was given to St. Peter's
Monastery at Exeter probably, as Risdon says, by Canute ;
but by 1050, when the episcopal see was transferred to
Exeter, it had passed into other hands. It was recovered by
Bishop Leofric, and it was then that it became the property
of the cathedral church of Exeter. Whether the suffix of
Regis is owing to its connection with Canute, I do not know.
The church is very ancient, and still retains traces of the
original building, which appears to have been erected about
the twelfth century. The pillars are certainly Transition-
Norman, and the font is of the same period. The chancel
was just as old, for there is a Norman door, and on the
outside of the wall, both above and below the east window,
fragments of stone, carved in Norman fashion, are let into
the more modern masonry, and are again found in the outer
face of the walls on the north and south sides. Whether
the window in the south wall is Transition-Norman or
Early English, I am not confident. Both the chancel arch
and those of the nave are apparently later additions, dating
from the thirteenth century, and the deeply embayed lancet
window in the south aisle is of the same date. The Early
English trefoil piscina in the east end of the north aisle,
near the door which once led to the rood loft, may owe its
position there to the fact that this end of the aisle was
probably at one time a chapel to St. Mary, to whom, with
St. Peter, the church is dedicated. The arms of the diocese
of Exeter (the cathedral church of which is also dedicated
to St. Peter) will be found on the shields held by the angel
corbels over the east window. For so small a church the
408 West on Mouth.
styles of architecture are many, for, of course, there is
plenty of Perpendicular work besides.
The chancel contains one monument that must ' be
unique. It is a tablet, dated 1695, to the memory of Joanna
Avant, daughter of Philip Avant, a former vicar, and the
inscription is in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, and English.
Instead of making our way at once back to the cliffs,
which, beautiful though they be, are very much like each
other, we will follow the road for a season. Passing round
to the back of the church, this road ascends the hillside. It
is the street of the hamlet, and presently we see the -school,
a very pretty one, of which the good vicar is justly proud.
Flowers climb the walls, while, cut on a tablet placed in
the gable over the porch, may be read the Divine invitation,
" Suffer little children to come unto Me." But once beyond
the cottages the road is dull and dusty, not to say flinty
as well, and we are glad, after a quarter of an hour's walk,
to come upon something that will give us an excuse for
pausing, if it be but for a few minutes.
On the right of the road lies Dunscombe Farm, a
building that shows many traces of age. Here are the
mullioned windows with heavy square dripstones, the
roomy house place and massive timbers of a bygone day.
The farm was a farm in the days of Elizabeth, and possibly
formed part of the ivy-clad ruin from which it is separated
but by a narrow passage. Local tradition calls these frag-
ments of mouldering walls a "castle" — local tradition
always does, except when it disdainfully dubs them " old
barricks " — but there is not much appearance of a castle
about it. It is much more likely to have been a manor house.
Dunscombe overlooks another combe — Weston Mouth.
From the path a track descends through a wood to the
coastguard station near the shingle. At eventide the white
houses are overshadowed by the tall precipice called
Dunscombe Cliff, 351 feet high. The cliffs hereabouts are
Petrifying Springs. 409
full of springs which, washing down the red and yellow soil,
stain the pebbles with parti-coloured streaks. Between
Weston Mouth and Branscombe, the next mouth, these
springs have petrifying qualities. It is worth, I am told —
I have never tried it — a scramble up the undercliff to obtain
specimens of the fossilised vegetation. A friend of mine
found a beautiful piece of bramble petrified most perfectly,
even to the thorns. Specimens may be seen about the
cottage doors at Branscombe, principally mosses. They are
curious rather than beautiful, and, having in the process
turned a greyish colour, bear some resemblance to that
digestible but very unromantic comestible tripe !
It is three miles from Weston Mouth to Branscombe, and
the walk after climbing the mountainous cliff slope that
bounds Weston Mouth on the east is delightfully
invigorating. The breeze, unchecked by tree, fence, or
other obstacle, blows fresh in the face of the wayfarer, and
crisps the surface of the great open bay with little foam-
capped waves. When you pause, as you frequently will,
to try to make out some shadowy headland half-way up the
coast of Dorset, you will look down either a sheer precipice
or a sloping wall of red, yellow, grey, and white, with a base
of broken masses covered with vegetation often wild, but
occasionally, as we noticed just now, sowed by the hand of
man. After awhile the summits become less level and are
crested — and this is especially noticeable from the sea —
with what look like great earthworks, tumuli, and other
fanciful shapes. Chalk, it is well known, does weather into
many strange objects, but these, I fancy, are mostly due to
man's agency, and are the refuse heaps of chalk pits which
Time has covered with a carpet of green. Now and again
you come upon a limekiln in picturesque decay.
Suddenly the wall opens, and we look down upon " one
of the sweetest combes in Devon." It is one of three, all
of which converge at a point about a mile up from the sea.
410 Branscombe.
Each is green with meadow, shaded with foliage, and
watered by its own brook. Straggling up the combe — in
fact, scattered over all three valleys — is Branscombe. In one
valley is the vicarage and an inn, in another the church, in
the third the omnipresent chapel and some picturesque
cottages, ending a good two miles from the shore with
another inn which keeps the best cheese I have ever tasted.
And all about the village rise steep green hills, the loftiest
covered with trees, and reaching an elevation of some
six hundred feet.
The population of Branscombe is, in common with that
of all the other villages of this coast, mostly agricultural,
though a little fishing may be done at times. But many of
the women have other work than hoeing and such like
employment. Branscombe turns out a good deal of
Honiton lace, the greater part of which is made to the
order of a local firm. At the great Exhibition of 1851 they
exhibited a specimen of their handiwork worth, it is said,
£3000. At every other cottage you will find a woman
with a pillow in her lap, hard at work at the delicate
fabric. And a much more pleasant occupation than
labouring in the fields in wind and rain, laying in a store
of " rheumatic " for their later years, poor things.
Descending the wooded side of Littlecombe Hill we
reach the church, a very ancient building and in a state
of repair that can only be called shocking. The floor is
broken and uneven — so uneven that a short-sighted person
might easily stumble, and the monuments in the chancel
are positively running with green slime. The verger,
a cobbler, who has a little wayside cottage hard by, shakes
his head dolefully. "The architect says it will take £2600
to put 'un to rights, sir." Maybe; but it would not take 2600
pence, or even farthings, to make one or two eyesores dis-
appear, and it reflects little credit on the people of Branscombe
that they are content to leave their church in such a state.
Branscombe. 411
And it is a building of which much might be made, for
it is well proportioned, and its sturdy tower and thick walls
show little sign of yielding to the hand of Time. In fact,
the exterior deludes the visitor into expecting something
better than the dingy horse-boxes and plentiful whitewash
which he will find inside.
The shape is cruciform, the tower on rectangular piers
rising from the centre, and appears to have been built in
the twelfth century, or very early in the thirteenth, and
would therefore be on the border-line between the late
Norman and Early English styles of architecture. Most of
the church evidently dates from the same period, for the
corbels beneath the eaves of the roof run right round the
building, and are all of like pattern. The window lighting
the south transept, however, is Decorated, though the one
opposite is Early English. The east window, again, which
contains five lights and is divided by a transom, is
Perpendicular. Even the tower has been interfered with,
the round stair turret having been heightened by the
addition of an octagonal top rising above the battlements.
Altogether the church is rather a medley, and cries aloud
for judicious restoration. But it will take a long time to
collect the necessary sum in Branscombe.
There is quite an elaborate monument in the north
transept. This is a tomb with a bas-relief containing no
less than twenty-three kneeling figures. The two males are
John Kellaway and John Wadham, husbands of Joan Tre-
garthin, who with her twenty children is represented behind
her husbands. This prolific lady was the mother of
Nicholas Wadham, the founder of Wadham College, Oxford.
The WTadham family once possessed Edge, that house on
the round hill to the north-west, the first owner being Sir
John Wadham, who came into possession of the property
in the time of Edward the Third. Sir Nicholas was the last
Wadham who lived there. He died without issue, and Edge
412 Branscombe.
fell to his sisters, who had married into the famiKes of
Wyndham and Strangways. Edge still retains traces of
sixteenth-century architecture, and there are ruins of a
domestic chapel.
Branscombe church is dedicated to St. Winfred and St.
Branwallader. St. Winfred, the British name of good
Bishop Boniface,* himself a Devonshire man, is a very rare
dedication — indeed, there is but one other, and that is at
Manaton, on the borders of Dartmoor. His ecclesiastical
name of Boniface appears at Bonchurch in the Isle of Wight,
and at Bunbury in Cheshire. St. Branwallader is supposed
to be the same as St. Brannock, to whom is dedicated the
church of Braunton in North Devon, and Branscombe probably
owes its name to this saint quite as much as Braunton does.
In the churchyard is an epitaph to one Joseph Braddick who
died while working in the fields. It is very much to the point :
Strong and at labour
Suddenly he reels
Death came behind him
And struck up his heels
Such sudden strokes surviving mortals bid ye
Stand on your watch and be ye also ready.
Near the south door lie the remains of " William Lee the
father and Robert Lee the son both buryed together in one
grave October the 2 : 1 658." Their tomb bears these verses :
Reader aske not who lyes here
Unlesse thou meanst to drop a tear
Father and son Heere joyntly have
One life one death one tombe one grave
Impartiall hand that durst to slay
The roote and branch both in one day
Our comfort in there death is this
That both are gone to joy and bliss.
* He was born at Crediton about 680. Pope Gregory II. consecrated him
Bishop of the German Churches, and Gregory III. made him Archbishop.
While prosecuting his missionary work he was, with fifty followers, slain in
Friesland in 755, and buried in the Abbey of Fulda.
Branscombe. 413
The wine that in these earthen vessels lay
The hand of death hath lately drawn away
And as a present serv'd it up on high
Whilst heere the vessells with the lees doe lye.
What odd conceits some of these old epitaphs have !
On the other side of the door is what at first sight appears
to be a huge block of stone. My cobbler, however, informed
me that it was an overturned sarcophagus brought from a
distance — I think he said Budleigh Salterton — of its history
he was quite ignorant. There it lies in the same position,
I suppose, as when first shot down. If sufficiently interesting
to bring from such a distance, one would have thought that
a little more care would have been taken with it. But
Branscombe evidently cares for none of these things.
Its records must be interesting reading, too. Overlooking
the church is an ancient house called the " clergy," which
still has an ecclesiastical window or two, and was, Murray
says, " full of strange hiding places." Whether there is
anything in the local tradition that it is built on the top of
another house (crypt?), I do not know. From its name
it was evidently at one time devoted to pious uses, although
to-day it is a cottage. Possibly it was a priest-house.
And on the same side of the road that winds up the
valley, only much higher — in fact, in the uppermost hamlet —
is another queer old house that has a history. On it is the
date 1581, and, like the "clergy," it is now turned into a
cottage — or cottages. All the information possessed by
the present tenants is that it was a " Roman Catholic
place." Truly a man with an antiquarian turn of mind,
and with more leisure than the passing wayfarer, might
do worse than amuse himself by collecting all that can
be discovered about Branscombe.
The way onwards to Beer will take us by the road that
winds along the sides of the hills down to the shore. It
passes near an old farm, formerly, and perhaps still, known
414 Beer Head.
as Seaside House. In bygone days this house, which
dates from the seventeenth century, was the residence of
the Michell family. There is a tradition thai John Michell
sheltered in a recess in the neighbouring cliffs a number of
unfortunate persons informed against for having been seen
among Monmouth's followers, yet wholly innocent of any
overt act of rebellion.* Here, like a seventeenth-century
Obadiah, he hid and fed them, waiting till the vigorous
search after rebels had somewhat abated. The Michells
soon after removed to Slade, in the adjoining parish of
Salcombe.
Leaving the coastguard station, we climb another tall cliff
and soon find ourselves on South Down, with Beer Head
just ahead and a broken mass of undercliff at our feet.
Beer Head rises 426 feet almost straight from the water,
and is the most defined promontory between Berry Head and
Portland. It is the most southerly outcrop of the chalk in
England ; in fact, the most westerly, too, as the traces in
the cliffs towards Branscombe are really part of the same
mass. With its white pinnacles and ivy-hung crags it is a
beautiful object. Below it is eaten out into caverns, where
the water is a ghastly green with the reflections of the
overhanging crags of chalk. The lower rocks are dotted
with black objects. If you approach you will find that they
become instinct with life, and move their heads uneasily
from side to side. They are cormorants, or " Beer Head
fishermen " as the Sidmouth folk facetiously term them.
And skilled fishermen they are, too. There is one even
now gazing intently at the pale water as it sucks against
the weed-covered sides of his rock. A splash, and he has
disappeared. He is too far off for us to note the result of
his sudden dive, but when he reappears a hundred yards
out to sea his beak is high in the air, his head almost upon
his shoulders. He is evidently swallowing something.
* Rev. Edwd. Butcher's New Guide to Sidmouth, 1820.
Beer. 415
The situation of Beer Head is such that it commands a
greater extent of coast line than any promontory in
Devonshire. You can see from Portland to the Start, a
distance, following the coast line (most of which is visible),
of at least a hundred miles, though from horn to horn in a
direct line across the chord of the great arc of the West
Bay it is not much more than fifty. To say more about
the wonderful colouring would be mere repetition. But
as you stand on this great white headland the contrast
between the different tints is more marked than ever. You
have the yellow cliffs of Dorset ; the ochres and siennas
of those about Axmouth ; the white and grey of Beer ; the
red of Sidmouth and Dawlish ; while the limestone of
Berry Head has become a pale blue, and the grim rocks of
the Start a line of softest grey.
A mile inside Beer Head is Beer Cove and the long
village of Beer filling a narrow valley. We reach it after
a roughish walk by footpath and lane, descending into the
village not far from the spot where stands the large new
church for which Beer people have to thank their landlord,
the Hon. Mark Rolle. With the exception of one or two
villas which have of late years been erected on the hillside
above, it is about the newest thing in Beer. For Beer,
though getting modern, is still an old-world village. And
the people are old-world, too, despite the fact that Seaton
railway station is but two miles away, and that cards
announcing " Furnished Apartments" may be seen in some
of the cottage windows. Shut out as they have been for
centuries by the high hills inland, over which the roads
have always been bad, and are none too good even to this
day ; with no town within many a mile; — for Seaton is little
more than a village ; with no haven between Lyme and
Exmouth, and with no trade save fishing and lace-making —
neither of which brings them much into contact with the
outside world — one feels little surprise that the people of
4i6 Beer.
Beer are almost a race unto themselves. And they knew
in days gone by how to take advantage of their isolation.
Ask any ancient sailor about smuggling, and he will tell
you of wild doings along this coast in old times, when Jack
Rattenbury converted the caverns into vaults for French
brandy, and defied every King's ship from the Wight to the
Start. In stormy weather these daring rascals would lash
the tubs together, thus forming a sort of breakwater round
their boats. But all this is over now, and the coastguardman
at the station upon South Down has, I imagine, little to do
but gossip with anyone who fancies his company, and stare
through his telescope at the craft passing in the offing.
It has often been remarked that the people of Beer have
an appearance singularly foreign-looking. Dark hair and
eyes and swarthy complexions are, indeed, no rarity — and that
they have a strong strain of Spanish blood is an undoubted
fact. This I discovered in the most unexpected manner. A
summer or two ago I chanced to call at a country house.
The door was opened by a man dark of hair, dark of eye, and
dark of visage. With that sinking of the heart experienced,
I believe, by nearly every Englishman when he attempts to
speak the Gallic or any other tongue except his own, I pre-
pared to deliver myself in such " French of Parys " (being
ignorant of Spanish) as would come at short notice,
but, to my surprise, this foreign-looking butler addressed
me in excellent English. I had not committed myself,
fortunately, and subsequently I asked him how he knew
English so well. " I come from Beer, sir," he said, with a
twinkle in his dark eyes. And then he told me why so
many had mistaken his nationality. When Elizabeth's
captains were pursuing the lumbering Armada up the
Channel, one of the great galleons was cast ashore at Beer.
The crew escaped, and the inhabitants, who, as likely as
not, had the haziest notions of why beacons were blazing on
all the headlands, and knew nothing of the Pope and King
Beer. 417
Philip's designs, succoured the destitute Spaniards, who
settled among them, married their maidens, and became
naturalised men of Devon. This was the man's explanation.
And his name was Gibbs ! Shade of Medina Sidonia !
Fancy the descendant of a Spaniard, however lowly,
rejoicing in the unromantic name of Gibbs !
But I am bound to say that there is another version of
my friend's story, not quite so interesting, perhaps, but,
with all respect to him, honest fellow, more credible. Fifty
years, or thereabouts, after the scattered remnants of the
Armada reached the shores of Spain, the Plague broke out
at Beer, and more than three-fourths of the inhabitants
were swept away. Just then a Spanish vessel was wrecked
in the cove, and the people, glad of anyone to cheer their
desolation, permitted the sailors to instal themselves in the
deserted houses. And this, according to a very general
tradition, is the true reason why so many of the Beer folk
" look like furriners."
In connection with this subject, a late vicar of Branscombe
has contributed some interesting notes to the Western
Antiquary* After alluding to the wreck of the Armada
galleon, and to the " physical characteristics of some of the
people," he states that the registers of Branscombe have
"some remarkable foreign names, such as Meco and the
well-known Spanish name Margal, which was of late years
distinguished in the person of the Spanish Minister of State
Senor Py y Margal," and that there is land at Branscombe
known as " Margal's" to this day. He further tells us that
in the winter of 1871 an old anchor was found in Beer Cove,
which from its antique pattern was thought to have belonged
to the Spanish warship. This anchor seems to have been
sold as old iron, so whether it belonged to the Armada gal-
leon or to the vessel wrecked later there is now no means of
determining.
* Vol. vii., p. 320. "'Beer and the Armada."
» E E
4i 8 Beer.
Through the village runs a diminutive brook, which,
after traversing its entire length, tumbles into the cove
below. This brook is to the children a great delight.
Of a summer evening they may be seen constructing
miniature dams and floating miniature boats in the ponded
water to their hearts' content, in days gone by I have
seen their mothers sitting in the sunny doorways- patiently
working at their lace. For, a few years ago, Beer, even
more than Branscombe, had — and, indeed, though in less
degree, has still — a name for lace. But we no longer hear
of such triumphs as those of the past, when the workers
were honoured with Royal commissions, making not only
that for the Queen's wedding dress — " which," they will
proudly tell you, "cost a thousand pounds, every penny" —
but also some of that used for the dresses of the Princess
of Wales and the lamented Princess Alice.
And it seems that they made lace for the Prince Consort
as well, though I was not before aware that he wore it
either at his wedding or afterwards. While talking to a
lady resident at Axmouth, she told me that she had been to
see an old man whose wife, just recovering from illness,
was piously reading a book of prayers, rather, she thought,
as a " show off " before her. In the course of conversation
she mentioned the Queen's wedding dress, part of which
this old lady had done, whereupon the old fellow looked
at her mysteriously, and, lowering his voice, said : " There,
mum, I seed a thing then I never seed afore nor since.
'Twas a pair of Honiton lace breeches for Prince Albert, an'
he wored 'em over blue satin ! " Then, turning to his wife,
he shouted : " D'ye mind them there breeches yer made for
Mister — for Prince Albert?" The old woman, engaged in
muttering her prayers, looked inexpressibly shocked, and
replied : " I've better things to think on." " But yer mind
it — yer've got the prickings upstairs — what part on 'em
was it yer made ? " With increased dignity she replied :
Beer. 419
" I've better things to think on — I don't think on they
things now," and returned to her prayers. And so we are
left in doubt as to whether the Prince really did wear lace
breeches over blue satin (blue satin -what ?} or no. If he
did, we can quite believe that no one has ever " seed such a
thing afore nor since." "f-
There is at least one interesting building in Beer. This is
a house built by John Starre, whose family were joint lords
of the manor with the Walronds in the sixteenth century.
On one of the chimneys may be seen his initials, J. S. ; on
another his canting crest, a star. In the baptistery of the
church is a monument to a member of the family, removed
from the old chapel, pulled down to make way for the
church. It commemorates the Plague, though that word is
oddly spelt. The inscription runs : " John the fifth son of
William Starr of Bere gent : and Dorothy his wife which
died in the Plauge was here buried 1646."
E E 2
CHAPTER XXVIII.
OVER THE WHITE CLIFFS.
Beer Quarries — The Cove and the Capstan — The White Cliff — Seaton —
Moridunum — Bovey House and its Ghost — A Blocked Haven — Battle
of Brunanberg.
BEFORE we resume our march eastward we must pay a
visit to the quarries. They are up the valley, to the right
and left of the road, that on the right being in full work,
while the other is abandoned and the great heaps of refuse
covered with grass or undergrowth. Of the antiquity of
these quarries there can be no question. Tradition says
that they were worked by the Romans, and, though tradition
occasionally lies, in the present instance it is likely to be
true enough. Perhaps the Roman villa, traces of which
were discovered near the earthwork known as Hannaditches,
behind Seaton, may have been built with stone from these
quarries.
At any rate, there is no doubt that Beer stone was
used in the construction of the vaulted roof and parts of
the arches of Exeter Cathedral, itself eight hundred years
old ; so Beer quarries are not exactly of yesterday. This
ancient quarry is not an open excavation, but burrows into
the hill for a great distance, the roof or roofs — for there are
branch galleries — supported by rude pillars of the natural
rock. So extensive are the workings, that they are said to
go even beneath the sea, like Botallack Mine in Cornwall.
It is scarcely a pleasant place to go astray in, and should
Beer Quarry. — Cove. 421
certainly not be explored without a competent guide. For
myself, I was content to remain outside and learn how full
of bats, how damp and dismal it all was — which same
dampness, however, does not appear to have prevented its
being used by Rattenbury and Co. as a warehouse for
contraband.
" Beer stone," as it is called, is excellent for building
purposes. Lying at the junction of the chalk and green-
sand, it is principally composed of carbonate of lime, soft
and easily cut, but hardening with exposure, owing to
evaporation of the moisture with which it is charged. After
a few years the creamy white weathers to a soft grey, which
imparts an air of substantial comfort to the neighbouring
cottages.
Retracing our steps down the village street, we turn to
the left to the coastguard station, which commands a view
of the cove with its • rows of fishing boats, its groups of
lounging fishermen — for the " shags " are not the only
fishermen of Beer Head — and its great capstan, the present
of Mr. Penry Williams, the artist, whereby the boats are
drawn up the steep bank of pebbles. Fishing at Beer
appears to be in a prosperous state. Years ago I can
remember when the present capstan was sufficient for the
boats employed, but this is no longer the case. "Us do
want two or three more, sir," said a son of Zebedee ;
" an' there do be a meeting up to town to-night to talk it
over." We hope that the " talking it over " will be
productive of something satisfactory.
" Once upon a time," as the story books say, I suppose
this capstan would not have been necessary. For there
was then a pier ; but the waves made short work of it.
"Ther was begon," says Leland, in his quaint fashion,
" a fair pere for socour of shippelettes at this Bereword ;
but ther cam such a tempest a 3 years sins, as never
in mynd of man had before bene scene in that shore,
422 The White Cliff.
and tare the pere in peaces." And you may still see its
ruins.
What a pretty spot this cove is ! No wonder that Penry
Williams was so fond of it. How blue the water looks
against the gleaming flanks of Beer Head — how sleepily
this hot day it laps, laps, laps against the sides of that
picturesque boat that scarcely stirs in response ! A hundred
yards from shore, " rocked in the cradle of the deep," doze
a happy family of gulls. We envy those gulls as we face
the chalky pathway that gives back a glare that is positively
painful, and climb slowly beneath a white crag studded
with round flints — where it is not green with ivy — to the
down above. A board mounted on a post at the summit of
the ascent warns us not to approach too near the edge of
the cliffs. The warning is not unnecessary, as landslips are
of frequent occurrence, and within my own memory tons
of the stately "White Cliff," as it is called, have crashed
to the beach below. And before many years have
elapsed more will go. A few yards to the left of the path
may be seen a long, deep fissure. Some day this will
widen — probably with great suddenness — and the precipice
topple forward en masse, and either lie on the foreshore a
confused pile of ruin, or form an undercliff similar to the
subsidence further east, though, of course, on a much
smaller scale.
But as it stands at present the White Cliff well deserves
its name, for it is almost snow white, and perpendicular as
a wall. And a wall it very much resembles, being set
here and there with regular courses of flints exactly like
bands of masonry. It commands a grand view of Beer
Head in one direction, and of the ochre cliffs about the
mouth of the Axe in the other.
At the back of White Cliff sweeps the high road to
Seaton. Presently, as we descend through a copse, we
come in sight of it. But it looks hot and uninviting, so
Seaton. 423
we take the path to the right, which drops to the beach,
along which, and at the very feet of the cliffs, runs
a rough sort of promenade, a continuation of Seaton
Esplanade. Where this promenade begins the white
cliffs suddenly come to an end, and the red ones again
crop out, mixed with a good deal of blue clay and marl.
Turning as we gain the beach, we look up at the great
wall of chalk above. It is well worth looking at, even
in this land of gorgeous hues, for it has the loveliest tints
of any cliff in Devon. Bars of purest white, yellow ochre,
and pale blue alternate, any suspicion of hardness being
at once banished by the green of the grasses and shrubs
that fill the fissures and inequalities of its surface. When
seen against a background of bright blue sky the effect
is hardly English. It looks as if a bit of the Mediter-
ranean coast had found its way to the misty shores of Albion.
The cliffs get lower and lower as we approach Seaton,
and finally cease altogether as the end of the esplanade
comes into view. It is a very humble esplanade, with little
to separate it from the pebble ridge which stands the Seaton
people in lieu of a beach. But about the middle the wall is
higher than elsewhere, apparently to render more
conspicuous the word MORIDUNUM, which, painted in
gigantic letters, stares the people landing from the excursion
steamer in the face, and at once puts them on inquiry as to
its meaning. Its meaning is that Seaton wishes all and
singular to know that it claims to be the " only and original "
Moridunum of Antoninus, and that such places as Hembury
and High Peak have no right to any pretensions whatever.
The claims of Seaton seem to rest upon certain earth-
works that once existed at Hannaditches* (vulgo,
* But this may be Danish, the work of Hanna, who is said, traditionally,
to have been a powerful Danish prince — perhaps the leader of the expedition
that landed at the mouth of the Axe. (See infra, and Mr. P. O. Hutchinson's
paper at p. 277, Trans. Dev. Assoc., vol. xvii.)
424 Moridunum.
Honeyditches) and on the lofty hill of Hocksdown across
the Axe, upon a bit of so-called Roman road at the base of
the latter hill, and on the Roman villa discovered half a mile
north of Honeyditches, of which little or no remains now
exist. The Roman road certainly points seaward, and may
have branched from the Ikenild Way at Axminster, some six
miles up the valley of the Axe. But what about the
distances? The "Itinerary" gives Moridunum as thirty-
six miles from Dorchester (Durnovaria) and fifteen from
Exeter.
Now, thirty-six Roman miles are equal to forty and a
half English ones, and Seaton is less than thirty. Hem-
bury Fort, on the other hand, is forty and a half miles
exactly,* and High Peak much the same distance,
and both about six miles (Hembury is slightly the
nearer) north and south respectively of a branch of the
Ikenild Way passing through Ottery St. Mary. The camp
of Hembury Hill is a fine specimen, and in it have been
discovered Roman coins and a " lar " or household god of
iron. It is without doubt the most favoured of the three by
modern antiquaries. At any rate, it has a far better title
to the name of Moridunum than Seaton, and perhaps
High Peak comes next. But I am gradually wandering
into matters antiquarian — to many " dry as dust." So we
will leave this discussion of the site of Moridunum and
turn our steps towards the modern town winding up
the slope that looks down upon the marshy meadows of
the Axe.
It always seems to me that Seaton must have been a
country town first and a watering place afterwards. Even
along the sea front there is little suggestion of a watering
place — few of those palatial edifices of brick and stone and
plate glass wherein the modern watering place doth rejoice.
* I take this measurement from Stirling's " Beauties of the Shore." He
follows Sir R. C. Hoare's computation.
Seaton. 425
And when you get into the narrow streets you might be a
score of miles from the ocean for all suggestion there is of
it. Quite a rustic air broods over Seaton. It looks as if
it had originated somewhere about the middle of the county
and been thence removed bodily to the shores of the
English Channel.
. It is not more than half the size of Sidmouth, and has far
less the appearance of a town than its more fashionable
neighbour. Indeed, when you get beyond the shops in the
principal street it is as much village as town — a pleasant
retired spot where those who want a maximum of quiet
with a minimum of " life" will do well to pitch their tents.
Once outside the streets there are peaceful views of the
Axe Valley with red Devon cattle grazing on the rich
herbage, of Hocksdown towering high above the grey
tower of Axmouth Church, and of low wooded hills and
sunny slopes stretching away towards Colyford. And in
the opposite direction, looking away from this rural picture,
you have a stretch of blue sea framed in, as it were, by the
White Cliff on the one hand, and the ochre precipice of
Haven Cliff, overlooking the mouth of the Axe, on the
other.
The church stands at the very head of the town — indeed,
quite in the country. It appears to have a little of every
kind of architecture from Transition-Norman to debased
Perpendicular, but none of it is striking, and the building,
as a whole, has not been improved by modern innovation.
The principal monuments are to the Walronds, an old
Devonshire family who formerly resided at Bovey House,
an interesting Elizabethan mansion about two miles inland
at the back of Beer village. The estate came to the
Walronds about the end of the thirteenth century, and was
held by them till 1778, when, a Walrond heiress marrying
Lord Rolle, Bovey passed to that family. Over the vestry
door of Seaton Church is a tablet containing a quaint
426 Seaton.
epitaph by one of the Walrond ladies to her husband — in
capitals :
Here lieth the body of my husband deare
Whom next to God I did both love and feare
Our loves were single we never had but one
And so He bee allthough that thou art gone
And you that shall this sad inscriptiO view
Remember it allwaies that deaths your due.
Bovey House has a secret chamber in the roof. It is also
haunted. The " rights of the story" it is difficult to get at,
but the ghost appears to be a headless lady, who walks the
house in a blue silk dress. Who she is, and why she has no
head, no one seems to know. The blue silk is, it would
seem, part of every respectable ghost's wardrobe. Occa-
sionally they are seen in grey ; but whoever heard of a
well-regulated spectre in green or brown or black ?
Whether a Roman settlement or not, Seaton is without
doubt a very old town. It is mentioned in Domesday Book
as Suetetone, and, with Axmouth, was once a place of some
trade, with a haven, now choked by the pebble bank. It
provided two ships for the siege of Calais in 1347, and on
September 21, 1450, Bishop Lacy (of Exeter) granted an
indulgence to those who would contribute towards the
repair of the haven.* Either the " true penitents " did not
come forward in sufficient numbers, or the sea was too
much for them, for soon after the pebble ridge filled it up,
and the Axe was driven eastward to Haven Cliff, where,
according to Leland, it entered the sea by " a very smaul
gut," precisely as it does to-day. In Leland' s day — the
middle of the sixteenth century — the haven was only a
refuge for fishing boats, though not long before his time the
" gut " must have been much wider, for remains of shipping
and anchors have been found far up the river, and in 1 837
Mr. Stirling mentions the discovery of a vessel of about
70 tons burthen near the fording place, " which in all
* Stirling, p. 9.
Seat on. 427
probability had remained in that situation for upwards of
three centuries." It is probable, therefore — indeed certain
— that the marshy meadows across which to-day runs the
railway were once part of the estuary of the Axe, and that
the Seaton of the Middle Ages was, commercially, of far
greater importance than the Seaton of to-day.
But there is still a chance of its regaining some of —
possibly much more than — its original importance. More
than once has a scheme been discussed for making a ship
canal between it and some point on the Bristol Channel,
thus saving the long, and often stormy, route round Land's
End. If this canal ever becomes un fait accompli — which
at present seems doubtful — Seaton must benefit appreciably,
and Axmouth, now a quiet village of thatched cottages,
may once more have the fourteen hotels (!) that are assigned
to it by tradition.
The history of Seaton is uneventful. Like most of the
other towns on this seaboard, it suffered from the descents
of the Danes, and here landed in 937 certain Danish
princes, perhaps those whom Athelstan defeated at
Brunanberg (or, as the Chronicler calls it, Brumby), which,
according to some antiquaries, was at or near Axminster —
anciently called Branburg. Others, however, place the
scene of the battle in Lincolnshire, and there are certain
lines in the saga into which the Chronicler bursts over this
victory which are, to my mind, rather against the arguments
of those who place the scene of Athelstan's victory by the
banks of the Axe. Says the Sagaman :
Mercians refused not
the hard hand play
to any heroes
who with Aulaf
over the ocean
in the ship's bosom
this land sought
fated to the fight.
428 Seaton.
And again, after triumphantly telling how " five youthful
kings " and " seven eke of Anlaf's earls " were
by swords in slumber laid,
he narrates how
the brothers
both together
King and etheling
their country sought
West-Saxons' land.
Now, what had the men of Mercia to do with Wessex ?
And why, if Athelstan and Edmund the Etheling were
already in Wessex, did they seek " West-Saxons' land " ?
CHAPTER XXIX.
THROUGH THE LANDSLIP.
Mouth of the Axe — The Concrete Bridge — Haven Cliff — Culverhole
Point — The Landslip — A Great Subsidence — Rowsedon — A Rough
Undercliff — The County Boundary — Lyme Regis.
A WALK of less than a mile brings us to where the Axe,
pent up by the pebble ridge, swirls angrily to the sea.
Across the narrow mouth, right under Haven Cliff, stands
the Custom House and a crumbling quay — remains of the
last attempt to reopen the old haven. Half a century ago
the little harbour, which owed its construction to the
enterprise of John Hallett of Stedcombe, the lord of the
manor, was quite a busy spot. Vessels of 150 tons could
berth there, and timber yards and coal sheds stood
on both sides of the river. But the sea was always
troublesome ; sometimes vessels could not get into the
river at all, and the pebbles silted up more and more till
the outlet became as it is now — only about ten yards
wide. Then came the railway; the people of Colyton
and Seaton could get their goods with greater certainty,
and the harbour began to empty. Now it is deserted
altogether ; the sheds have disappeared, the yards are
desolate, and when I last saw the Custom House it was fast
lapsing into ruin. I hear, however, that within the last
few months it has been " restored," and now forms a
sort of sea-house, or summer-house, for the present owner
of Stedcombe.
430 Axmouth.
A quarter of a mile from its mouth the Axe is spanned
by a bridge of concrete, built a few years since as a
substitute — a very necessary one — for the ferry boat which
carried passengers across a few yards below. Near this
ferry was the site of the old " haven " of Seaton, and some
rough stones still mark the spot where the last effort was
made to restore it. The story is told by Tristram Risdon.
" It appeareth," he says, "that in this place divers works have
been attempted for the repairing of the old decayed haven,
but of late years with better success than formerly by T.
Erie, Esqre, lord of the land ; who, when he had brought
the same to some likelihood, was taken away by death,
leaving his labours to the unruly ocean, which, together
with unkind neighbours (by carrying away the stones of
that work), made a great ruin of his attempt. But the
now lord thereof, his son, hath not only repaired the
first ruins, but proceedeth on with purpose to bring to
pass that which before him his father intended, as well for
the general good of the kingdom, as particularly for these
parts." This was written in 1630, and only ten years later
we read in Sir William Pole's " Description of Devon-
shire," that " it appears by old works and piles that there
hath been a haven which Thomas Erie, Esq", and Sir
Walter his son, attempted to renew, but, after much
expense, they were obliged to abandon the undertaking."
Only ten years, and already sea and river had made such
havoc that it only "appeared" to have been a haven! I
am afraid that unless the ship canal comes Seaton and
Axmouth will never more see vessels in their river.
The concrete bridge — quite a curiosity in its way — carries
the road to Axmouth and Lyme Regis. Axmouth, a mile up
the river, we have visited on a previous occasion.* In the
wall of the church is a copper bolt, the mark of one of the
stations of the survey made in 1837 by the British Associa-
* See " The Rivers of Devon."
The Landslip. 431
tion to determine the difference of level between the Bristol
and the English Channels, and with the further object of
establishing a fixed mark by which any subsequent deviation
or depression might be detected. "The line was from
Bridgewater, up the Parret, to Ilminster, Chard, Axminster,
and Axmouth. There are similar bolts at Wick Rocks near
Bridgewater, at East Quantoxhead, and in the wall of Uphill
Church near Weston-super-Mare, and in the whole number
future geologists will have data for solving one of the most
interesting problems their science affords."* This was the
line — or nearly so — adopted by Telford in 1825, when the
survey was made for the ship canal. The highest point
is near Chard, 280 feet above the level of the sea.
From Haven Cliff to Culverhole Point the ochre and
white coast line is broken and irregular, and exhibits
traces of subsidence. These traces, however, scarcely
prepare us for what is coming. For we are approaching
the Landslip — that wonderful undercliff (if so it may be
called) which looks more like the results of an earthquake
than of an ordinary subsidence.
I have referred to the landslip at White Cliff. This is a
small affair when compared to the mass of ruin that
stretches eastward of Culverhole Point. But the process
is the same. There is a fissure in the chalk down ; that
fissure widens, rain soaks in, and frost helps rain. Or
springs wash out the sand on which the cliffs stand, and
the huge mass begins to quake. By-and-bye the people of
adjacent farms hear a rumble, a roar, a crash as loud as
that of an Alpine avalanche. Time and the elements have
done their work — the cliff has gone.
From Culverhole Point all the way to Pinney does this
landslip extend, but the most remarkable effect of the
disturbance is seen below the farms of Bindon and
Dowland. Here is the story :
* Walter White's " A Londoner's Walk to the Land's End."
432 The Landslip.
Shortly before Christmas, 1839, some cottages not far
from Dowlands Cliff began to subside, doors jammed, and
plaster cracked. The morning of Christmas Eve dawned,
and the rustics awoke to find that their pathway had sunk
seven feet, and that their gardens were full of chasms and
crevasses. During the night the ground began to tremble
as though an earthquake were impending, strange noises
issued from the bowels of the earth, the land rocked and
heaved, and a few of the coastguard passing the spot saw
to their amazement the fields and pastures with which they
had long been familiar sinking down, at times with a
sudden dip, then slowly ; here portions dropping through
all at once, there others protruding upwards. Amid
sounds " like the rending of cloth," the poor people fled
in terror.
They were just in time. At daybreak it was found that
the cliff had been torn away — and there lay a chasm three-
quarters of a mile long, two hundred and fifty feet in width,
and one hundred and fifty in depth, while a melee of
Crags, knolls, and mounds confusedly hurled,
The fragments of an earlier world,
lay piled in the wildest fashion along the undercliff and
shore. Nor was this all. Almost simultaneously a ridge a
mile long and more than forty feet high burst up through
the sea parallel with the coast.*
As Dr. Buckland well said, this convulsion in the
grandeur of its disturbances far exceeds the ravages of the
earthquakes of Calabria and almost the vast volcanic fissures
of the Val de Bove on the flanks of the Etna." It seems
wonderful that there was no loss of life, though it is said
that a shooting party narrowly escaped being engulfed in a
crevasse which opened at their very feet. Strange to say,
two cottages and an orchard descended comparatively
.* " Seaton, Beer, and Neighbourhood." By G. Mumford.
The Landslip. 433
uninjured — one of the cottages had to be demolished, how-
ever, and the other has been rebuilt. The orchard
flourishes as well as ever. And the once barren scene of
wreckage is now a veritable wild garden. Up the crags
and pinnacles climb honeysuckle and convolvulus, from
gleaming scaurs ivy waves in the breeze, while in spring
the ground is a mass of primrose and hyacinth.
It must not be imagined that all the confused mass below
the fields was caused by this particular subsidence. The
part bordering the shore was undercliff long before, and
has no more connection with this great convulsion than has
the undercliff below the farms of Whitlands and Pinney
further east, though the whole slope is commonly called
" The Landslip." Anyone who will take the trouble to
scramble down the path to this undercliff will, I think, see
at once that the subsidences are of different dates, and
that the later one has fallen, as it were, upon the former.
The ridge that rose in the sea, and the various "havens"
formed along the shore — all of which have now vanished —
were probably formed by portions of this undercliff thrust
outwrards by the tremendous pressure.
The best view of the great chasm is from the ground
above what we must now, I suppose, call the cliffs. You
look down upon an immense horseshoe, of which the
landward side is an abrupt precipice of chalk, particoloured
sandstone, and clay, but the chalk predominating ; the sea-
ward, broken and contorted masses of greensward (once
pasture land from above) tilted up at a sharp angle, gigantic
waves of chalk, the concavities white, the slopes brightest
green. As we walk along the edge of the cliff we shall
notice here and there in the ravine isolated wrhite pinnacles,
some capped with lumps of flint and gravel, others still
retaining the turf of the field of which they once formed
part. These are particularly noticeable at the western end.
The effect from the undercliff below is very fine. " The
F F
434 The Landslip.
finest part," writes a sometime correspondent,* " is just west
of the west end of the ravine. There from below it is easy
to fancy oneself gazing at some huge ivy-mantled castle.
We seem to occupy the outside of the deep moat, neglected
and well nigh filled by a tangled growth of underwood
and creepers. Across it rises a many-bastioned wall,
festooned and almost hidden in ivy. Along the top of
that we see the main platform, whence tower, stern and
abrupt, the walls of the fortress."
The subsidence seems to have had little effect upon the
crops, with which at the time the land was, of course, full.
As a rule, the land broke away in such great pieces that
most of them could be gathered, and I am told that in
the following autumn the harvest was plentiful, albeit
sometimes three or four hundred feet away from where
it was sown. And the lads and lasses made quite a gala
day of it. Reaping under such circumstances was a
decided novelty, and they turned out from all the
countryside arrayed in white attire, the ladies being
further adorned with blue ribbons. Were it not that
tillage would destroy most of its picturesqueness, it seems
almost a pity that the Landslip should lie uncultivated.
A spot more sheltered or more sunny it would be difficult
to find — and what a place for strawberries ! But I
suppose the expense of cultivating these ridges would
far exceed the value of any produce derived from them.
At any rate, the Landslip is practically deserted except
by the " feeble folk," which inhabit it in tens of thousands.
As we reach the end of the chasm the mansion of
Rowsedon appears half a mile inland. Rowsedon was built
by Sir Henry Peek, who also erected the pretty church of
St. Pancras close at hand. This was built on the site of an
ancient church, which, except for burial purposes, had been
unused for a century or more. Fifty-five years ago it is
* Mr. C. S. Ward, M.A., in " South Devon and South Cornwall."
The Landslip. 435
described as a " small thatched edifice without pews and
with only one window." Rowsedon was then and is still,
with the exception of Haccombe near Teignmouth,* the
smallest parish in England, and the population was only
fourteen. The only houses now are Sir Henry Peek's
mansion and the buildings connected with it and Dowlands
Farm, through which those coming from the Landslip must
pass if they wish to see the house or church. A feature of
the former is the hall, which has some fine windows
illustrating events in the history of Lyme Regis.
As the Landslip below Rowsedon is private property, I
believe that the correct course is to pass up the lane to
Dowlands and into the road to Lyme. Ignorant, however,
that we were trespassing, we elected to further explore the
broken slopes, and with some difficulty managed to climb
down the cliff at the side of the hanging wood which covers
the declivity immediately beneath the plantations of
Rowsedon. The trees, which are principally ash, descended
bodily from the upper regions, and, although many were, of
course, killed, the majority survive and take to their new
quarters kindly. From the narrow path that winds through
this woodland may be seen on the one hand, and far below,
the glittering waters of the Channel ; on the other, the
interlacing branches scarcely conceal the pinnacles of chalk.
It is a study in blue, green, and white.
Emerging from the wood and passing at the back of a
lodge surrounded by gardens where tall shafts of pampas
grass and valuable shrubs look strange in this wilderness,
we reach the new drive leading down to the shore. The
cuttings disclose strata of blue clay, and the land is so
charged with moisture, springs breaking forth everywhere,
that the principal cause of the subsidence is at once
apparent. At this point the glories of the Landslip may be
* Devonshire, therefore, has the largest and smallest parishes in England,
the largest being that of Lydford, which embraces Dartmoor Forest.
436 Undercliff.
said to end. We are now close to the beach, and for the
next mile have a very rough experience indeed. A track
which begins in a weak-minded sort of way presently
ceases altogether, and the walk becomes literally a
pilgrimage over an uneven slope made up of chalk, clay,
and flints. Even here, however, vegetation keeps a footing,
and, though blasted shrubs may be counted by the score,
there is a flourishing growth of bramble which at the proper
season bear, as I can myself testify, a splendid crop of
blackberries. Away against the sky line tower the cliffs of
Whitlands and Pinney, and before we reach a path again
we begin to wish we were on their breezy summits. Toil,
however, comes at length to an end, and we scramble across
a weed-grown watercourse and up to a path on the verge of
a dense wood that comes to the very edge of a lower line of
cliffs. Here or hereabouts the chalk comes to an end, and,
looking towards Lyme, we see a long grey wall of the
Rhaetic formation as regular as the wall of masonry which
it so much resembles.
For the last day or two the cliffs of Dorset have been
drawing nearer and more near, and we feel that our
journey is approaching its termination. Up to the very
last the scenery is passing fair. Our path takes us through
another undercliff, this time of green undulating glades,
and, passing out into the open fields, we reach the county
boundary and look down upon the picturesque little seaport
of Lyme, with its long stone Cobb or pier stretching a grey
arm into the blue sea. Eastward the coast stretches
away in tints of yellow and ochre and sienna, past lofty
Golden Cap — that flattened cone rising 615 feet sheer from
the beach — past Eype Down and Bridport Harbour, past
the precipices of Burton Bradstock, past the low green
shores of Abbotsbury, to Chesil Beach and the stony Isle
of Portland. Very different is the scene to that where
our journey commenced. Except the ever-present sea,
Lyme. 437
there is nothing in common between these brilliant cliffs of
the West Bay and the stern screes of the Foreland, the
wooded cliffs of Glenthorne, and the purple undulations of
Exmoor. But whether we gaze
O'er yon black rock whose frowning bastion braves
And breaks the onset of the wintry waves,
or stand where
The red cliffs dip their feet and dally
With the billows green and cool,
we must, if we have any soul at all, confess to the beauty
of these Devonshire coasts. Where but in this dear old
western county shall we find such contrasts — where such
matchless colouring?
FINIS.
INDEX.
Abbotsham, 145
Amyas Leigh at Lundy, 223
Anstis Cove, 371
Appledore, 136
Armada, The, 261
Arragon, Catherine of, at Plymouth,
259
Avon, Estuary of the River, 304
Axe, The River, 426, 428
Babbacombe, 374
Baggy Point, 128
Bantham, 304
Barbican, The, 278
Barricane Beach, 118
Beacon Hill, 208
Beer and the Armada, 416
Beer, 415
Cove, 422
Head, 414
Quarries, 420
Beesands, 327
Dogs of, 328
Benson the Smuggler, 218
his Cave, 218
Berry Head, 348
Berrynarbor, 72
Bicton, 400
Bigbury, 302
Bay, 295, 308
Bishop Hannington, 43
Jewel, 75
Blackpool, 335
Black Church Rock, 161
Mouth, 167
Black Prince at Plymouth, 254
Blake, Admiral, 266
Bloody Corner, 140
Bloody Hills, 128
Bolbury Down, 310
Bolt Head, 314
Tail, 309
Borough Island, 304
Bovisand Bay, 281
Branscombe, 409
Braunton Burrows, 132
Lighthouses, 132
Brazen Ward, The, 236
Britte, Walter, 286
Brixham, Cavern at, 356
Lords, 359
Trawlers, 358
Quay, 356
Buck's Mills, 149
Budleigh Salterton, 395
Bull Hole and the Bull, 313
Point, 108
Burrough and Amyas Leigh, 141
Stephen, 141
Cairn Top, 103
Cary, Will, 158
" Castle," The, 69
Castle Rock, 31
440
Index.
Cattedown, 280
Remains near, 280
Catterin Tor, 176
Cattewater, The, 257
Challacombe (see West Challacombe)
Chambercombe, 81
Legend of, 82
Cheeses, The, 226
Cliff Railway A, 29
Clovelly, 151
Church, 157
Court, 159
and Charles Kingsley, 153
Dykes, 155
Coach Accidents, 25
Coffin, Sir Wm., and the Priest, 147
Coddow Combe, 20
Combe Martin, 61
Mines of, 57
Constable, The, 230
Coscombe, 17
Cosgate, 12
Countisbury Common, 21
Village, 23
Crazy Kate, 154
Crock Meads, 40
Crock Point, 40
Cromlech, A Doubtful, 112
above Twitchen Combe, 118
Croscombe, Sir Robert, 19
Croyde, 126
Bay, 127
Cruel Coppinger, Story of, 179
Culverhole Point, 431
Cutcliffe, John, 106
Daddy Hole Plain, 367
Legend of, 367
Damage Farm, 106
Dart, Mouth of the, 337
Dartmouth, 342
Castle, 339
Harbour, 338
History of, 345
Dawlish, 383
" De Bruiere's Revenge," 364
Den, The, 379
Desolate Combe, 19
Devil's Chimney, The, 227
Devil's Cheesewring, The, 32
Kitchen, 202
Limekiln, 220
Slide, 229
Devonport, 273
Leat, 275
Devonshire Roads, 100
De Whichehalses, The, 34
Ditchen Hills, 155
Doones, The, 35
Down Head, 348
Drake, Sir Francis, 262
Drake's Island, 251
Durl Head, 348
Dunscombe Farm, 408
Earl of Rone, Hunting of the, 67
Earthquake, The, 225
Eddystone, Story of the, 247
Edward II. and Lundy Island, 215
Eldern Point, 164
Erme, The River, 298
Exe, Estuary of the River, 386
Exmoor, n
Exmouth, 388
Explosive Story, An, 192
Fishing Stations, 6
Foreland, The, 19, 20
French Ruse, A, 236
Attacks on Dartmouth, 336,
345
Friar's Garden, The, 224
Gallants' Bower, 337
Gallantry Bower, 160
Galleon, Wreck of the, 221
Gannet, A Voyage in the, 198, 2OO
Gannet Stone, 234
Index.
441
Geology, 3
of Kent's Cavern, 369
of Lundy Island, 185
of Rillage, 80
of Saunton, 131
of Thurlestone, 306
of Westward Ho, 144
Georgeham, 123
George the Third at Plymouth, 274
' Gladstone ' Rock, The, 227
Glen Lyn, 28
Glenthorne, 17
Golden Cove, 71
Granite Quarries, Lundy, 239
Gun Caverns, The, 22
Half Way Wall, The, 226
Hallowe'en, Wreck of the, 312
Hallsands, 327
Hangman, The Great, 50
The Little, 55
Ham Stone, The, 313
Hannah More, Wreck of the, 241
Hannington, Bishop, 43
Harding, Thomas, 67
Hartland Abbey, 168
Church, 169
Point, 164
Town, 1 68
Quay, 175
Hawker, Rev. R. S., 178
Hawley, John, 343
Hayes Barton, 393
Health Resorts, 6
Heddon's Mouth, 46
Heaven, Rev. Mr., 190, 204, 210
Hele, 81
Sir John, 287
Henbury Beacon, 177
High Peak, 399
High Veer, 46
Hillsborough, 85
History of Devonshire Coasts, 7
Hobby Drive, The, 150
Holdstone Down, 49
Hollow Combe, 46
Hope, 307
Hope's Nose, 368
Hubba the Dane, 139, 208
Hubblestone, 139
Hughes, Rev. G., 252
Hunters' Inn, 48
Ilfracombe Harbour, 87
History of, 91
Town, 93
Church, 96
Torrs, 102
Ilsham Grange, 369
Instow, 135
Jenny's Cove, 227
Jewel, Bishop, 75
Johnson, Dr., at Plymouth, 268
John O'Groat's House, 229
'Jol low's,' 178
Kent's Cavern, 369
Kent, Sir Kenneth, Legend of, 370
Kingsley, Charles, and Clovelly, 153
Kings wear, 347
Castle, 341
Lace Manufacture, 410, 418
Ladram Bay, 398
Lambert, General, and Drake's
Island, 252
Lametry, Peninsula of, 201, 202
Landlord's Invitation, A., 127
Landslip, The, 431
Lane, Rev. Wm., 301
Lannacombe Mill, 322
Lantern Hill, 89
Laywell, The, 354
Leamington, Loss of the, 307
Lee, 104
Abbey, 34
G G
442
Index.
Lee Bay (Lynton), 39
Lee and the Babbacombe Murder,
375
Mount, 383
Littleham, 391
Logan, Lundy Island, 238
Lot's Wife, 376
Lundy Island, 184
Climate of, 187
People of, 189
Customs of, 190
Cultivation of, 191
Fauna of, 193
Birds of, 194
Fishing, 196
Landing on, 197
Voyage to, 200
Landing Place, 203
Lighthouse, 208
Church, 208
Ecclesiastical History of, 209
History of, 215
Pirates, 216
Proposed Harbour of Refuge,
234
Quarries, 239
Lyn, The, 16
Gorge, 27
Cliff, 28
Lynmouth, 28
Lynton, 30
Maidencombe, 377
Manor House, Lundy, 205
Marana, Wreck of the, 323
Mariscos, The, 213
Marisco Castle, 20 1, 211
Marsland Mouth, 182
Martinhoe, 41
Bishop Hannington at, 43
Marychurch, 374
Mayflower, The, 265
Meadfoot, 368
Mewstone, The, 283, 315, 348
Mining, 51, 57
Moridunum, Site of, 400,^423
Mortehoe, 109
Church, 113
Morte Point, no
Stone, no
Morty Well, 112
Mothecombe, 297
Mother Melldrum, 33
Mount Edgcumbe, 245
Mount Wise, 275
Mousehole and Mousetrap, 236
Mouths, 174
Mouth Mill, 161
Napoleon at Plymouth, 267
in Torbay, 354
Newton Ferrers, 290
Church, 293
Northam, 141
Burrows, 140
North Walk, 31
North End, Lundy, 229, 232
Noss, 292
Church, 294
Oar Stone, 368
Oddicombe Sands, 373, 376
Old Barrow, 13
Otter, The River, 396
Paignton, 360
Parson and Clerk Rocks, 382, 383
Parson, The, and the Wreck, 319
Parsons', The, Adventure, 199
Passmore, Lucy, 182
Pear Tree Point, 322
Pebble Ridge, 143
Peppercombe, 148
Petit Tor, 376
Petrifying Springs, 409
Phillpotts, Bishop, Anecdote of, 372
Pie, a Colossal, 258
Pirates at Lundy Island, 216
Index.
443
Plymouth, History of, 253
Sound, 246
Hoe, 246
Breakwater, 251
Citadel, 252
Sieges of, 265
Town of, 260
Leat, 262
Old Houses in, 275
Poole, and Sir John Hawkins, 334
Portledge, 147
Portlemouth, 318
' Potwallopers,' 144
Prawle, 320
Point, 320
Princess Mary, Story of the, 353
Prince Albert and the Breeches, 418
Pudleep Gurts, 20
Punchbowl, The, 226
Quarter Wall, The, 224
Quin and the Red Mullet, 269
and the Torbay Sole, 358
Raleigh, Sir W., Arrest of, 216, 264
at Hayes Barton, 393
Ralph's Hole, 311
Ramillies Cove, 310
Rapparee Cove, 87
Rat Island, 201, 203
Refreshments Scanty, 300, 302
Resurrection Bob, 354
Revelstoke Church, 296
Drive, 295, 296
Rillage Point, 79
Ringmore, 300
River Estuaries, 4
Rockham Bay, 109
Rodney Cove, 20
Rotten Pits, 311
Round Towers on Lundy, 228
Rowsedon, 434
Saint Michael's Chapel, 366
Saint Nectan, 172
Salcombe, 316
Castle, 316
Hill, 405
Regis, 406
Salterne Rose, 182
Samplers, 162
Sampson's Cove, 79
Sandy Way, 71
Saunton, 130
Down, 129
Court, 130
'Seadogs' of Devon, 260
Seals' Cave, 219
Seakale, Introduction of, 331
Seaports, 5
Seaton, 423
Sewer Mill Cove, 312
Shagstone, The, 282
Shag Rock, The, 368
Shaldon, 377
Sherracombe, 49
Shipload Bay, 164
Shutter Rock, The, 220
Sid, The River, 403
Sidelands, The, 201, 236
Sidmouth, 401
Skeletons on Lundy Island, 207
Slapton, 332
Lea, 331
Sloe Gin, 77
Smallmouth Caves, 72
Smoothlands, 167
Smugglers, 311
Smugglers' Cave, A, 106
Lane, 382
Smuggler's Leap, The, 39
Spekesmouth (orSpokesmouth), 176
Staddon Heights, 281
Stair Hole Bottom, 314
Start Bay, 328, 335
Point, 322
Origin of Name, 326
Stoke Point, 295
444
Index.
Stoke St. Nectan, 169
Fleming, 336
Storehouse, 272
Sugar Loaf, The, 240
Tamar, The River, 244
Taw, Estuary of River, 133
Teign, Est»'T-y of the, 378
Teignmoi 77
Templar Rork, The, 238
Three Quarter Wall, 228
Thurlestone, The, 306
Church, 305
Tibbett's Hill, 238
Tobacco, Story of Introduction of,
394
Torbay, 350
Torcross, 330
Torquay, 363
Torre Abbey. 364
Torrs, The (Lynton), 24
Camp on, 26
(Ilfracombe), 102
Townstall Church, 344
Tracey, William de, 113, 121
Trayne Valley, 84
Trentishoe, 48
Tunisie, Wreck of the, 240
Turnchapel, 279
Vincent Pits, 310
Virgin's Well, The, 233
Wakeham, Sam, 283
Walls Hill, 373
Warcombe, 107
Warren, The, 385
Watcombe Terra Cotta Works, 376
Watermouth, 77
Castle, 78
Welcombe, 178
Mouth, 177
Wembury, 285
West Challacombe Farm, 55
Down Beacon, 392
Weston Mouth, 408
Westward Ho, 142
White Ale, 307, 333
Cliff, The, 422
Pebble Bay, 104
Wild Pear Beach, 61
Wildersmouth, 94
William of Orange, Landing of, 351
Windbury Head, 161
Wingate Combe, 19
Woodabay, 41
Woodbury Castle, 392
Woolacombe, 119
Sands, 123
Valley of Rocks, 31
Varwell and William of Orange, 352
Yealm, The River, 289
Yes Tor, 55
:
Page, John Lloyd Warden
The coasts of Devon and
Lundy Island
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